Redbeard
by JadeBuohler
Summary: When a mysterious case consumes Sherlock, in more ways than one, John is determined to find out why. But soon it is revealed that this case has a background that deals with stories even John never knew about his best friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. When something from the past comes back to haunt him, Sherlock must sacrifice his life for the safety of his friends. Again.(BBC-Sherlock)
1. More than Usual

**_Hey! This is my first fanfiction novel type thing...I hope you like!_**

**_I am not exactly sure when this takes place...its about right after season 3 really, but the whole thing with 'Did you miss me?' hasn't really taken effect._**

**_I don't want to get too far into that...I may have a mental breakdown if I talk too much about Moriarty. I'll leave that part up to Moffat and Gatiss. :) thanks! I really hope you like it! _**

**_It's basically just Sherlock and John solving a case. But not just any case...DUN DUN DUUUUUN._**

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><p>Sherlock paced rapidly through the messy flat, his hands placed openly on his chin, his mind unsettled, as always. His expression was twisted into a look of distress; his eyes lurking in sadness below the ridge of his long, dark curls of hair.<p>

John sat in his usual chair, watching him carefully.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John sighed as a question.

"No." Sherlock snapped hastily, closing his eyes and exhaling in irritation.

"Alright." John huffed, and got to his feet to get two cups anyway.

He clanged and clinked in the kitchen, rustling through the cupboards, as he strained to find a way to get through to Sherlock.

He knew it would be difficult. His friend was a hard person to _chat _with.

"Sherlock?" John called out, "Why does this case have you so frazzled?" _More than usual at least,_ John thought. He sighed once more as Sherlock only answered with an aggravated silence.

"Alright." John muttered again, as he shuffled back to his red armchair, and placed the tray of tea onto the small coffee table. Sherlock turned his way and quickly sat down in his own black, leather sofa chair, sat in front of John's, crossing his legs and folding his arms.

"Name John." Sherlock seemed to order, much to John's confusion. "What?" He flinched awkwardly, gazing at his friend with narrowed eyes.

"Case name, John. What are you naming it on your blog?" He snapped in a deep breath, and shut his eyes softly, as he had done before, as if attempting to concentrate harder.

"Um," John hummed, and winced, "I don't know…Cabin Fever?"

Sherlock got to his feet.

"A log cabin in the middle of nowhere bursts into flames, nothing left by ash, and you want to name it Cabin Fever?" Sherlock scoffed, and went back to thinking. John shook his head in aggravation. He stared at Sherlock with gentle eyes. Something was off. He seemed to be more upset about this case. As if this one was driving him completely berserk. _At least far more than usual._

"What is it Sherlock?" John questioned with suspicious eyes, as he glared at his friend.

Sherlock simply shrugged, "What do you mean?"

"This case has you on edge. Is there something you aren't sharing?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly, "I'm thinking."

John sighed, and smiled a weary, crooked smile, which soon vanished. "No, it's more than that."

This case seemed to be consuming him, his best friend, in ways John couldn't describe, nor understand. What was so completely abnormal about this case, than any other? Nobody had died. Nothing had been lost, but a simple old cabin.

"It's nothing, John." Sherlock snapped hastily, and began pacing again.

He reached for the cup of tea, and took it with him on his continuous journey around the dusty flat. John narrowed his eyes and watched as Sherlock fell into his mind palace once more. He sighed, "Stop shutting me out Sherlock." John spat.

Sherlock turned slowly, gazed at his friend, blinked, and then swayed towards the window.

"The last time you did that, you jumped off a roof and died for two years." John only mumbled his comment, but he heard Sherlock hold his breath for a moment, before slowly releasing it. After what seemed to be a decade of dead silence, Sherlock spoke.

"I thought you'd forgiven me."

John chuckled, "You're my best friend, of course I've forgiven you. But I don't want to be confronted with the chance of losing you again. Not for real, this time."

John swallowed, remembering that moment that struck his heart harder than he thought possible. He remembered sitting in the flat, staring at Sherlock's empty black arm chair, the moment he hit the ground replaying over and over again in his head like a broken record. The things his best friend had said to he was a fraud. That everything he had said and done was fake. That he planned every case, every code, and every victory. That Moriarty never existed; that he was a simple actor. But John knew it couldn't be real. Every hateful word spoken about him thereafter wasn't the truth. But the fact of reality, that he had lost his truest friend, took ages to set in. That he'd never hear his unplanned insults, and certainly miraculous deductions where he seemed to know every little thing about everyone else. And just as the pain had found its way into the storage center of his heart, tucked away only to come out when John was alone, Sherlock had returned unexpectedly. And John had been outraged. But that didn't stop him from returning to Sherlock's side again. Even with Mary in the picture now, he wouldn't abandon his best friend. Especially now, when Sherlock needed him more than ever. _This case. _It was getting to him. Scratching at the door of his soul.

Sherlock was staring at him now, his blue-green eyes apologizing repeatedly.

"I have to go see Mycroft." Sherlock stated, and cleared his throat.

He trotted over to the door, where his dark navy blue, nearly black, trench coat hung. He grabbed it, pulled it on, and followed with his blue striped scarf.

"About what?" John asked, and turned to face him, as he still sat in his red chair.

Sherlock froze.

"Redbeard."

And in an instant, he was gone.


	2. It Was My Fault

_**Chapter 2! **__**Lemme know your thoughts! I would love any reviews! Sorry it's so short! I'm just ending it where I think the scenes should end.**_

_**Sherlock belongs to BBC, but the idea of the case is meh. :) **_

_**Thanks.**_

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><p>John sat there in the empty silence of flat 221B. Something was telling him he should go to see Sherlock's parents. To see what is going on with this case. Why Sherlock is snippier, more cautious, and more consumed then usual.<p>

He'd had a thorough chat with his parents when they got together for a nice Christmas dinner, which actually ended in everyone getting dosed with a sleep tonic, and later, Sherlock murdering a man. _But he wasn't a very nice man. _He was a threat to Sherlock's family and friends, _even if he rejects the fact that he has them_, and so he dealt with it.

Leave Sherlock be, to solve this with his own deductive, genius mind? Or go to his parents as a concerned friend, so that he can help him to solve this strange case?

John chose the latter of the two.

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><p>Sherlock stepped inside the large, mahogany doors that led to Mycroft's study.<p>

He was revealed, sitting patiently in his desk chair, a cup of tea in hand, and another on the tray in front of him, awaiting Sherlock. He was still as bald as he ever would be, losing more and more of his dark brown hair, and Sherlock was quite sure he'd put on a few pounds since he last saw him, no matter how hard he'd been working out.

"Hello brother." He smiled, straightening his tight gray suit, as his deep voice bellowed out as an echo in the large room, which was cluttered with old books, and papers.

"Mycroft." Sherlock gestured with a nod of his head, his arms tucked behind him.

"I'm sure you know why I am here." Sherlock grunted and swayed over towards the bookshelves, beginning to fidget with the strange knick-knacks his brother held onto_. Sentiment_, he thought in disgust. How low was his brother falling? Mycroft narrowed his eyes as if reading Sherlock's mind.

"Hm," He began, "the Cabin by the Creek." Mycroft nodded slowly, as Sherlock walked over to sit at the desk, in front of his brother.

"That certainly is a better case name." Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes.

"Well," Mycroft shrugged, "What do you plan to do?"

Sherlock's gaze moved away from the merchandise surrounding the old room, and now fixed firmly on his brother's smug expression.

"Well, I plan to go down there."

"To the crime scene?" His brother questioned wide eyes.

"No, to visit Bluebell in Baskerville." Sherlock snapped sarcastically, "Yes, the crime scene."

His brother's forehead wrinkled as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"But you haven't been down there since-" Mycroft stopped, as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't speak of it, Mycroft." He stated hastily and glared at his older brother, as he quickly got to his feet, eager to leave the conversation.

"Sherlock." Mycroft began.

"Mycroft." Sherlock countered.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

Sherlock shuddered, and flinched, closing his eyes to repress the memories.

"He loved you, and so did Redbeard." Mycroft exhaled heavily and watched his younger brother for any sort of response.

"Mycroft, those short sprints you have been doing on the treadmill have not helped one bit, and the fact that sentiment is consuming your intelligence is rather insulting." Sherlock snapped, and continued to pester his brother with slander.

"Please, if you ever attempt to give me valuable advice again, you'll clean up before I get here." Sherlock finished, and headed towards the door of the study.

"And," He added, "It was my fault."

With that, he exited the study with a slam of the door, leaving his brother in a wave of pity.


	3. He Blames Himself

**Woohoo! Another Chapter in! Hope you like!  
>Sherlock belongs to BBC, but the idea for the case is mine! :3<strong>

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><p>John sat in the cab, as it drove past the old-fashioned homes, with their white picket fences and colorful gardens, until it reached the mailbox that read, 'Holmes'.<p>

He thanked the driver, paid the fee, and quickly jogged up the driveway and towards the front door. He knocked softly, and leaned over to ring the doorbell, which filled the house in an echo of a rhythmic melody. Soon he heard uneven footsteps headed his way. The door flew open and Mrs. Holmes was standing there, cheery eyed and grinning a grin that reached from ear to ear.

"John!" She sprang forward, throwing her arms around him softly, and squeezing him for a tight hug. John's eyes widened and he forced a small smile.

"Come in, come in!" She exclaimed and gestured him inside. He nodded her way and cautiously stepped onto the wooden floor and into the cool air of the house, with its old-fashioned decorations, picture frames, and antiques. Much to his surprise, Gregory Lestrade was sat in a bar chair at the counter near the living room, smirking his way. He always looked the same, in his coat, with his gray and white speckled hair, strange for his young age.

"Greg?" John questioned as Mrs. Holmes motioned for him to sit down in one of the sofa chairs. John did so.

"John," The Detective Inspector smiled and bowed his head John's way.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, politely.

"Well, it seems we are both worried about Sherlock Holmes." He sighed with a soft chuckle of almost embarrassment. "God help us."

John narrowed his eyes, slightly taken back, but then turned to Mrs. Holmes, as she placed a tray in front of John, containing tea and biscuits.

"I'm guessing you are both here about the cabin case?" She smiled sadly.

"Yes." John replied with concerned eyes.

"How was he this morning?" She asked, as John turned to Lestrade and then back her way.

"Um," John sighed, "Unsettled."

She nodded, "Yes, that was indeed a tragic day."

John glanced over at a concentrated Lestrade and then turned all his focus to Mrs. Holmes, gesturing her onward.

"It was about twenty years ago now, actually. Sherlock, of course, was his usual self. Wasn't very into making friends. And his big brother wasn't much of a help with that." She informed John, gazing at him with a faint, weary smile, as if thanking him for befriending her son. "Until that man and his dog moved into a cabin close to where we lived in the early days." She widened her eyes as if to demonstrate the importance of what she was saying.

"Who?" John asked with narrowed eyes.

"Oliver J. Jones, a detective for our local police force at the time," Ms. Holmes stated. Lestrade shifted. John was quite sure he was taking a mental note of the name, so that he could look into it later.

"And his dog, Redbeard." Ms. Holmes added with a simple nod.

"Redbeard?" John quickly responded, growing slightly tense in his chair. _Redbeard. This was what Sherlock was so eager to speak with Mycroft about?_

"Yes." Ms. Holmes smiled quickly and then continued, "It was December. Oliver and Redbeard had been there, in that small, wooden cabin, for a year or so."

John jerked forward in escalating interest.

"Sherlock went there almost every day, intrigued by Oliver's line of work." Mrs. Holmes hesitated and then sighed, "One night, he shared what Oliver was working on with us. He said they were currently looking into a hit and run. Simple as that." She paused.

John exhaled deeply, "But it wasn't as simple as that, was it?" John asked with a devastated expression altering his features.

"No, unfortunately not." Mrs. Holmes nodded. "Sherlock told us that he had decoded the case before Oliver. He was so proud of himself."

Mrs. Holmes smiled a genuinely happy smile, but it soon faded as she continued, "Oliver went after the culprit, with Sherlock's solution in mind, but," She swallowed and shut her eyes for a split second, "he never returned."

John cringed at the conclusion of the story, and shook his head.

"He blames himself." John thought aloud, hearing Lestrade shift in position, and Mrs. Holmes sigh wearily.

"Sherlock cared for Redbeard after that. He became his only friend. The day we had to put him down still haunts him. For him, it was like he was losing a part of his heart." She informed the two men sat forward in their seats, intrigued by the unknown information Mrs. Holmes was sharing.

John felt his own heart constrict. When he looked at Sherlock Holmes he saw pride, determination, and of course, that twinge of arrogance. But never tragedy. Every so often he could sense the array of loneliness his best friend presented, but he never informed him of this. Still, he couldn't possibly see any remorse in his friend. Or could he?

John was knocked from his thoughts as the loud ringing of a phone destroyed the empty silence of the smug, little house.

"I'll get it." Mrs. Holmes smiled and slowly got up from her chair, wobbling over to where her house phone sat, almost shaking with eagerness for her to pick it up. "Hello?" She answered in a sweet voice.

"Oh, Mycroft!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed. John's ears perked at the name, and he sat forward to listen carefully.

"Oh, I see. Alright. I'll tell John." She responded to the muffled voice on the phone. John raised his eyebrows. "Goodbye." She hung up.

John felt the need to get to his feet.

"John, Sherlock just left Mycroft's."

John looked to the floor, and then back up at the dainty old woman.

"Will he be alone?" She asked, stuttering slightly.

John nodded, "Um, yes. I believe so. Ms. Hudson is visiting her sister till tomorrow."

Mrs. Holmes raced towards him, "Hurry then. You shouldn't leave him alone for a second! You know how he is."

John nodded, said a quick farewell to Lestrade, thanked Mrs. Holmes for the story, and rushed to grab a cab.


	4. You're My Doctor

**This one took longer than I thought it would...hope you like! I love reviews so please leave some!**

**I'd like to thank ObsessedFangirl221B for all the amazing reviews and the favorite! Wow! Means so much from you, as I LOVE your fic! Also, go check out her fanfic, because it is absolutely brilliant! **

**Also thank you to CiCi98, I appreciate the help!**

**(Sherlock belongs to BBC.)**

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><p>John hiked up the stairs towards flat 221B on Baker Street, pausing for an instant before opening the door. When he entered, the air that rushed out was thick and it stung John's nostrils as he breathed in the bitter aroma. Once he pushed his way through the cloud that seemed to take up the entire living room of the flat, John saw Sherlock sitting there, in his black leather armchair, his legs crossed over<em>, which crinkled his black, dress pants<em>, and his eyes closed as he puffed on a cigarette.

"Sherlock!" John's sudden outburst didn't even cause Sherlock to flinch, as he just continued to exhale large circles of smoke.

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Leave me be, John. I need to think." He sighed, his eyes still shut.

John simply ignored his comment and plummeted himself down into his tattered old, red armchair right across from Sherlock. "How the hell did you find them?" John was outraged. It was indeed a nasty habit; the fact that Sherlock smoked when he needed to be otherwise 'preoccupied'. But John thought he'd hidden them well enough. Somewhere even Sherlock Holmes couldn't find them. _Apparently not._

"It was simple really." Sherlock responded with a shrug that irritated John far more than he thought it would.

"It really wasn't Sherlock." John growled and leaned back in his chair, sliding his hands over his face, attempting to ease his stressed nerves. Now look who's _unsettled. _John then reached forward in his chair and snatched up the box of cigarettes, tucking them in his own coat pocket, and out of reach from Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't flinch. John glared at him, aggravated by his undisturbed position of relaxation. When John didn't look away, Sherlock let out a deep breath of annoyance.

"What John?" He asked, puffing out more smoke.

John only narrowed his eyes and readjusted himself.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock questioned, louder now, angered by impatience.

"Nothing." John muttered, but never looked away from Sherlock.

"You shouldn't lie, John." He grunted, and inhaled deeper on his cigarette.

John chuckled at the irony, "Look who's talking." Sherlock then whirled upwards, holding his cigarette away from him, tucked between two fingers, as he glared at Doctor John Watson.

"I don't lie, John." Sherlock snapped and began to pace around the room again, holding his cigarette out to the side. "I simply don't give out the truth."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's addition to the bold statement, "Oh, like how you didn't 'give out the truth' to me for two years, Sherlock?" John questioned mockingly.

"There you see, John? Another lie." Sherlock sighed and dropped his eyes down to the ground, as John grew ever more intrigued by this explanation.

"You heard, but you didn't actually _listen_." Sherlock stated, and quickly shot a look towards John from under his locks of curly, chocolate colored hair. Somewhere in his eyes John could see disappointment. "I told you. It was only a magic trick." Sherlock puffed some more on his cigarette.

John threw his hands up in frustration, "Well, I am terribly sorry, Sherlock!" He apologized sarcastically, "Sorry I didn't _relate_ that to anything!" He continued, "I was a little busy worrying that my best friend was going to jump off that roof to his death!" John yelled his way, scowling in outrage.

Sherlock fell silent.

He simply watched John's enraged expression soften, completely ignoring the cigarette in his pale hand.

"John…" He began, but John didn't let him.  
>"No, Sherlock! I want to know!" John exclaimed, glaring up at the motionless Sherlock in front of him. "Yes, Moriarty had to be stopped, but why couldn't you have just let me in? In on the plan? Why did you have to<em> lie<em> to me?"

Sherlock was like a silent bomb. A bomb that John had just set off.  
>"God damn it, John! He had a rifle pointed at your head!" Sherlock shut his eyes, and plummeted down into his black chair. "I couldn't be sure Mycroft's bribe would work. I couldn't be sure that they would hold back on killing you." Sherlock was straining to get the words out, and once his eyes opened and met John's, the moment was the most painful they had ever shared.<p>

John thought about the situation. When Sherlock was gone, dead, John had struggled to move on. Meeting Mary had helped with that. But what about Sherlock? What had he done to forget about John? His other friends, in London? And what had he done, in general? John knew that he had granted himself the mission of tearing down Moriarty's vast network, but what did that include? Sherlock never mentioned those two long years. Why?

After a few moments of nothing but the sound of the emptiness surrounding them, John spoke up. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock tilted his head halfway sideways at John's apology. "You're sorry? For what?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowed.

"That I never bothered to ask." John stated, unable to turn away from his friend.

Sherlock seemed surprised that John Watson had the ability to confuse him. "What do you mean?" He asked, his eyes gazing in narrow slits underneath the ridge of his curls. Sherlock began dunking his cigarette in the ashtray he'd placed beside him, his focus entirely on John Watson now.

"What did you do?" John questioned, his tone resembled that of a concerned friend.

"Do?" Sherlock turned away, glancing around the room, but he knew what John meant. He just didn't want to answer.

"Yes, Sherlock. When you were dead."

Sherlock swallowed and took a look down at his fancy, black dress shoes. "Cases mostly. When I wasn't following Moriarty's network trails."

John nodded, "I remember Anderson saying that there were cases being solves that only you could crack. I thought he just felt guilty."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response. He simply folded his hands into a pyramid like position and tucked them under his chin.

John took a deep breath. "Why and when did you decide to come back?"

Sherlock shut his eyes, and exhaled. "Mycroft found me, as I was being…" He hesitated, swallowed, and then added, "Interrogated for information."

John narrowed his eyes and scooted his chair closer to Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes; he only shook his head. "I had information…_some friends_ needed and I had to be persuaded to give it up."

John scoffed, as he knew Sherlock wasn't telling the truth now. "And how exactly did they _persuade_ you?" John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock got to his feet, before holding his hand out to John and staring at him with pleading eyes. "A cigarette, John." He ordered and cleared his throat.

John shook his head, concerned as to why his friend was dodging the subject.

"Sherlock?" He questioned, tilting his head somewhat to the side.

"Cigarette, _please_." Sherlock stated, rolling his eyes and turning away from John now.

"Only if you tell me." John blackmailed, holding his ground.

Sherlock sighed and took a step backwards. "I'll tell you this. I certainly wasn't persuaded with diamond rings and fun toys, if that's what you're thinking." He snapped and lunged forward at John, snatching out the box of cigarettes, causing a few to fly out every which way.

John stared, a look of agonizing concern plastered onto his face. "They tortured you?" John gasped inwardly, suddenly extremely angered by the situation. His best friend. They hurt his best friend. _Only he can do that._

He pushed his finger against his forehead, sighing loudly. "Oh god."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed and glared at his friend. "You need to tell me these things!" John groaned and shook his head, gazing at Sherlock with a look of pity, as he readjusted himself in his cozy armchair.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shrugged, "Why are you so upset? It happened to me." He stared at John, sincerely confused as to why his friend was so riled up about the idea.

John exhaled deeply and gazed at Sherlock, retaining the pictures contaminating his mind. "You cannot keep these things stored up inside of you."

Sherlock was silent as he lit another cigarette, eager to breathe in the smoke.

"If you do, you'll end up having a panic attack of sorts." John explained, chuckling in almost disbelief, furious at whoever dared lay a finger on his best friend.

"That's why I have you." Sherlock spoke, causing John's eyes to flash up to face him.

"But you don't share with me." John sighed, staring wishfully at his companion.

"No, but you're my doctor." Sherlock smirked and took a puff of his cigarette.

John couldn't help but bare a small grin.

"Yes, I guess I am."


	5. Quite Like You

**Oh my goodness, thank you so much CiCi98 for your last review! Your words were truly inspirational!**

**Thank you amberaylin for the follow AND favorite! It means a lot!**

**And thank you for the favorites, and the continuous reading from CiCi98 and ObsessedFangirl221B! (Read her fanfic! _An Angel Among Us! _So amazing!) I hope you like the new chapter; we are getting closer to some action now! Woot woot! ****(Sherlock BBC)**

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><p>John kept his eyes on the now completely silent Sherlock, still scurrying around the room in a wave of distress. John hadn't yet attempted to speak with him about the case, and he was struggling to find the right time to bring it up. Instead, John sat, allowing Sherlock to continue smoking his devilish pass time. Sherlock's eyes gazed off into the unknown, his mind restless and unsettled still, as his dark curls bounced with his heavy strides. John was still processing their previous conversation as he listened to Sherlock's impatient footsteps, clamoring against the floor of the flat. As he watched the tall man pace, he could see the innocence in his eyes. No matter all he had done, all he had seen, Sherlock was in fact the most innocent man John had ever met. He could see the emotions glazing over Sherlock's eyes, emotions he would always say he never had.<p>

"Sherlock?" John posed his questioning tone Sherlock's way, causing his friend to turn with narrowed eyes, and squinting eyebrows.

"John?" He swallowed and kept pacing; John noticed the hint of irritation, as he was yet again interrupting his thinking time.

"I know about the case, Sherlock." John sighed and awaited Sherlock's reaction. He did, in fact, hesitate, but soon responded with an incomplete answer.

"The Cabin by the Creek," Sherlock stated, causing John to tilt his head, "is certainly a better case name." Sherlock finished and John couldn't help but force a quick smirk. But he soon shook his head, careful not to diverge from the subject.

"I know about Redbeard." John sighed, and gazed at his quiet friend.

"Tea, John?" Sherlock questioned softly and headed for the flat's cluttered kitchen, storing fingers in the fridge and lab equipment on the counters.

"Sherlock." John groaned as yet again, his friend attempted to dodge the subject. However, Sherlock still didn't respond, and instead continued to rummage through cabinets. "For once, open up to me!" John exclaimed, and he could have sworn he saw Sherlock jump at his sudden outburst. Sherlock stopped what he was doing in the kitchen and turned John's way. He was so calm, so collected, so relaxed; John wasn't sure this 'talking thing' would work.

"Oliver was an inspiring man."

Sherlock's voice startled John, and he now sat jerked forward in his seat, eager to hear Sherlock's side of the story. With him, there was always _something else._

Sherlock cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes to the floor below as he swayed over and back towards his black, leather armchair.

"He was genuine, unique, and never knew when to give up. He was," Sherlock paused, and sat, glancing over at John with gentle eyes, "quite like you."

John dropped his eyes, trying desperately for Sherlock not to catch a glimpse of the pity in his eyes. Sherlock hated pity, or any real sympathy for a matter-of-fact.

"I was moved by his detective work. It was he who certified the job for me, for my future." Suddenly, something in Sherlock's eyes turned him away from the subject. Whether it was the way he cringed and guided his expression away from John's view, or the way he flinched in his chair.

"I assume you know the rest as you went to see my parents in their ridiculous cottage of a house. Not sure why though, based on the fact that the only reason they are so friendly to you is because they are obsessed with your fashion sense and wish I was more like you, in settling down and dressing not…quite…right."

The words flew from Sherlock's mouth almost too fast for John to process.

He narrowed his features as Sherlock stated his strange deduction, never keeping straight eye contact with John for too long a period of time. John frowned, "They are obsessed with my fashion sense?"

Sherlock sighed, "Hmm." He grunted, "They think it's sophisticated." He spat, and shook his head with a growl, "Frankly, that word is revolting."

John chuckled softly and directed the conversation back to the previous subject. "No Sherlock, I want to hear the rest of the story from you."

Sherlock gazed at John; his features twisted in a peculiar way.

"It's the jumpers."

"The what?" John asked as his eyebrows furrowed.

"The jumpers." Sherlock shrugged.

"What about them?" John shook his head at his companion, confused by the random suggestion.

"Drives my parents bonkers with admiration." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Over my jumpers?" John questioned, with raised eyebrows.

"Indeed." Sherlock confirmed, with a sigh of irritation.

"Alright." John exhaled deeply and nodded his head slowly.

Suddenly, Sherlock sprang from his seat, jogging over to where his coat hung lazily on its pedestal.

"Lock up, John." He ordered, causing John to quickly get to his feet.

"Well, what about the story?" John held out his hands, upset by Sherlock's loss of interest.

"Sod the story, the story's rubbish!" Sherlock exclaimed and swung open the door to the flat. "We are doing something far more exciting!"

John hurried to grab his things, "What are we doing?"

Sherlock spun around to face him with a wink, "Going to a crime scene!"

At that he was out the door, not before John heard him call out, "Bring the cigarettes!"


	6. State of Mind

**YUS. Finally done with this one. FEW. Again, more thanks to those of you who are leaving reviews and are following the progressing story! It means so much to me and is greatly appreciated! And if your new, then welcome! (Sherlock BBC)**

**The truth is revealed.**

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><p>John and Sherlock took the rather strenuous, and silent cab ride to the crime scene. The cabin was out in the more woodland area of London, with an overhang of large green trees, and fearful animals. When they pulled up to the stretch of yellow caution tape, Sherlock was the first to exit the car, slamming the door rather harshly behind him. John sighed and quickly followed behind.<p>

The scene was horrendous.

The wood of what used to be a structure was charred and blackened with ash and burnt oak. It reeked of wild fire, and chemicals, which would cause any man to wince at the stinging sensation of a smell, and their eyes to water in the smoke filled air. John could see the hesitance in Sherlock's stride, and stayed well back to give him the space he seemed to need. The only thing that comforted John about Sherlock's state of mind was that he had folded up the collar of his trench coat. A small smile made its way across John's expression, as he thought back to old memories.

_Can we not do this? Do what? __You, being all mysterious with your cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool. I don't do that. Yeah, you do._

"The Mysterious Sherlock Holmes." A voice said the words before John could. Both turned to see a rather short, plump man in a police jacket hobbling towards them, ducking under the caution tape to reach Sherlock. He seemed young, with dark brown hair that just barely covered his head, and a belly that shook as he took each step forward. John was surprised he had the stamina to be a cop. The man extended his hand to Sherlock, awaiting Sherlock's reply.

"I've heard a lot about you from Greg Lestrade! The name's Michael Rondon. I'm in charge of this case; it's an honor to have you on board!" The man was so enthusiastic, John could almost see Sherlock cringing inside. Instead of reaching out to shake the man's hand, Sherlock simply looked him up and down, and glided past him, not a care in the world for the friendly man. John sighed and grabbed hold of the man's abandoned hand instead, shaking it up and down, "I'm John."

John collected notes on all the information he could get from the surrounding officers on duty. The explosion was a chemical bomb; definitely not an accident. Afterwards, he approached Sherlock whose head was hanging down as he stood in the rubble of the tarnished cabin.

John frowned at him, "Are you okay?" John took a step closer, trying to get a clear view of Sherlock's face. But Sherlock hid from him, attempting to wipe something off his face. John froze. He wasn't sure what he had just seen but the glistening from Sherlock's eyes was proof enough.

"Sherlock," John began, his face altering into a look of utter concern, "are you…?" John muttered and Sherlock quickly spun around, clapping loudly to avoid the question. John struggled to swallow the knot in his throat.

"So!" Sherlock exclaimed and began to make his way through the torn up, black structure. John stayed by his side, in an act to comfort him.

"His name's Greg?"

John stared at Sherlock, confused by his question. "Who?" John asked, and tilted his head in suspicion.

"Lestrade." Sherlock prolonged and began to observe the relic of a cabin more closely; every detail, every corner or crack in a burnt piece of wood.

John scoffed and shook his head, "Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes glazed over in the light, faintly red with soreness, but still their beautiful, bright blue-green hue. When he stopped in his place, his eyes closed. He seemed so very detached from the world, that it made John overly consumed by curiosity.

"Sherlock? What happened here?" John asked. _There was more_. But how much more?

Sherlock turned to stare back at John. "One night in December, Oliver, Redbeard, and I were sat on the living room floor, right here, in front of the fireplace, talking about his current case." Sherlock described to John, causing him to stare in sincere interest. "Oliver was lost on a case involving the murder of a woman and two children." Sherlock informed him, his eye casted downwards, facing the floor.

John paused and narrowed his eyes, "So, not a hit and run?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked John dead in the eyes. "No."

Just as Sherlock was about to continue, Officer Rondon came through the rubble, waddling over to the two of them, his fists on his hips. He seemed overly excited when in Sherlock's presence. For most people, it would be the opposite.

"So, Mr. Holmes! See anything interesting?" He asked with a wide grin.

John saw Sherlock smirk deviously, and turn to face the man. 'Of course I do." He stated and John quickly shook his head.

"Sherlock." He grunted, pleading that he not insult the man anymore than he already had.

But Sherlock simply kept his clever, arrogant smile.

"I see that you're busy man judging by the calluses on your fingers and the fact that you are perspiring heavily, whereas John and I haven't sweat at all." Sherlock inquired and went on, "I know that your wife left you for a more attractive man, because of the tan on your ring finger. And I know he was more attractive because, well, she couldn't possibly do any worse." John winced at Sherlock's further deductions.

"I see that your self esteem is low because you've recently put on a few pounds, which could frankly be because you're eating all those hamburgers; the reason for the ketchup staining just below your bottom lip." John squinted searching desperately for Sherlock's minor details on the frozen-still man, with widened eyes. "Therefore when you were assigned this case, the weight of those extra pounds caused you to feel somewhat inappropriate, ill-suited, inept, irrelevant…slightly incoherent." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's list of insulting synonyms.

"Are you finished?" John asked, with raised eyebrows, expecting there to be something else. While Sherlock simply shrugged, Rondon stared in astonishment.

"Well." The officer stuttered as he gazed at Sherlock blankly.

"Don't worry, Michael Rondon. It gets better. Believe me." Sherlock nodded and stared off at something across the crime scene.

"Y-yes, I know." Rondon managed, watching Sherlock's expression turn back his way, with narrowed eyes.

"I read in the papers. How you came back from the dead. How your name was cleared, after you had jumped off that roof." Michael Rondon smiled softly and awkwardly at him. Sherlock then fell into a motionless state, his features flat with devastation.

John sighed and nodded, "Um, Officer." He began, "Why don't you go look around the perimeter of the cabin. Maybe something could've blown off?" John encouraged, and the plump man grinned, taking off and out of the black frame of rubble.

John peered over at a silent Sherlock.

"You okay?" He asked with a comforting smile.

Sherlock finally fell out of his blank state, and cleared his throat. "Shall I continue?" Sherlock questioned, dismissing the pity.

John nodded and crossed his hands behind his back, standing patiently for Sherlock to begin again.

"As we sat there, searching through clues, an idea came to mind." Sherlock hesitated and made sure to add, "It took me longer back then. I was young." John smiled and gestured him onward.

"The victims were murdered with passion. Stabbed multiple times. I also noticed that nothing was broken, nor was the door kicked in, which most likely meant that the victims knew the killer." Sherlock explained and John nodded, comprehending Sherlock's deductions for once. "I told Oliver my theory, and for days we worked together, tearing through lists of contacts the victims knew." Sherlock went on, "We looked into the children's teachers, co-workers of the mother. Anyone we found suspicious." John looked down and then back up at Sherlock.

"It was three days later, that we finally thought we had found the guy. But that's when the unexplainable happened." John was taken back by the new information. _Unexplainable? To Sherlock? _"What? What happened?" John pleaded.

"The killer came through the front door."

John jerked forward, confused by the situation. "What?" He questioned with raised eyebrows, and quickly shook his head.

"Oliver tossed me to the side, and quickly stood to confront the man. But before, he could get a word in, the man pulled the trigger." Sherlock swallowed, and shut his eyes. "Four times."

John was shocked by disbelief, standing still as a rock, "In front of you?"

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat rather quickly, "I remember the man glaring at me as I hugged onto a growling Redbeard. And he smiled." Sherlock grunted, still keeping his eyes tightly closed. "He said to me, 'We'll meet again, kid. One day, before I die,' and then he was gone." Sherlock stated, now staring wide-eyed at John, his innocence revealing itself again.

"I was a child, but I was still smart enough to keep my mouth shut."

John shook his head in confusion, and astonishment. The story was definitely something more than a simple hit and run. Sherlock had been traumatized that night, and his family never even knew. "But what your parents said," John began, staring up at Sherlock helplessly.

"I didn't tell them the truth." Sherlock grunted, and sighed loudly.

John winced and inhaled deeply, "I thought you didn't lie."

"I don't lie." Sherlock responded, "to _you._"

John smiled softly and dropped his eyes to the ground, which was covered in ash. Before either of the two could say another word, Officer Rondon was jogging the best he could around the corner of the crumbling structure of the cabin.

"Sherlock! I mean, Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed, and quickly approached the two of them, heaving desperately.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared, "What?"

Rondon took a deep breath, "I think you might want to see this."


	7. Together

**Oh my goodness gracious, thank you so much to ObsessedFangirl221B. I seriously want to cry because of your reviews. I couldn't believe it the first time I read it and I had to reread all of them a third time. Your writing is amazing, and thank you so much for what you said about mine! **

**Of course, thank you CiCi98! It always makes me happy to see your reviews there to! Unbelievable how much love I'm getting for this fic!**

**Also, thank you to a new follower of the story, BoffinPenwings. :) appreciate it. **

**I am not too happy with my writing here, only because you know, I have mood swings, where one day I write good, and the other I write like crap. Well, today I am writing like crap. Haha, but we are progressing into the story a bit more now! (BBC Sherlock)**

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><p>Sherlock and John raced through the rubble of the charred cabin. Sherlock's coat flew back behind him like a cape, as he ran in front of John. Although, it wasn't much of a sprint, as they were both attempting to follow Rondon.<p>

"What is it, Officer?" John called out, as they jogged steadily.

"A message!" Rondon panted.

He led the two of them to an area, where a group of officers were stood, huddled around an object, and appearing as though they were a group of penguins struggling to stay warm. Sherlock pushed ahead of John, peering over the men, with narrowed eyes. John saw Sherlock freeze in his place, slowly spinning around.

John only saw his face for a split moment, but it was enough to see what Sherlock was feeling. His eyes were almost cringing with an agonizing pain only brought on by mental images, and his lips were turned downward in an act to still look tough, no matter how insecure he really felt. John watched as he tore into John's coat pocket, snatching out the box of cigarettes and pulling one out. And then he swayed off, the box now in his pocket as he turned away from John. John narrowed his eyes, and quickly made his way through the officers, eager to see what 'message' had been left. He soon got a good look. On the ground, tainted by gray and black ash, sat a red brick, chipped in color and stability at the corners. John read, the message written in a dark black scribble of handwriting. 'Have I got your attention yet?'

Taking off after the trail of smoke, John hurried to catch up with his friend. Sherlock was stood, smoking his cigarette, and staring up at the dark sky of gray clouds above him. _Lost in thought_, John presumed.

"Sherlock."

The break in silence didn't stir him, but instead seemed to ease his troubled expression.

"What does it mean?" John asked, with furrowed brows. Sherlock sighed, smoke exiting the ridge of his mouth. "Exactly what it says."

John narrowed his eyes, "Whomever this is just wants attention?" Sherlock turned to face his perplexed companion, his eyes still and focused on John's own, watching him with a gaze of mixed emotions. "_Your_ attention." John grunted with a nod. _Of course, it only made sense. _Sherlock knew more about this case than anyone. _He's the target._

"But why? I mean, why now?" John questioned, staring at Sherlock with concerned eyes.

"I don't know." Sherlock began, "I don't like not knowing."

John smiled, but it was gone in an instant. "It could be a chance to get answers."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, tilting his head towards John.

"Why he let you live that night." John stated, as Sherlock raised his chin into the air, and shut his eyes tight.

"Don't worry, Sherlock." John sighed and shook his head. "I'm not worried." Sherlock snapped, a little too quickly, his eyes still closed.

Ignoring his attempt to evade the truth, John simply shot his friend a smile.

"We'll take him down. Together."


	8. The Need to Surrender

**Wow! Thank you to Lauren, a new follower and reviewer, and of course as always ObsessedFangirl221B! Sorry for the minor cliffhanger... :D**

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><p>"Now, we can't be sure it's the same guy." John sighed, as Sherlock stared off into the unknown. At the first rumble of his belly, John had pleaded that he and Sherlock grab a bite to eat, as to which Sherlock finally gave in. Now, they were sat in some small restaurant near the crime scene, with its strange, multicolored bar lights, and old, drunks hunched over the counters, bottles in hand. Night had set in and not many people filled the space of the small pub, and those who did were forgotten the moment you set eyes on them, lacking in interest as they sat like statues.<p>

"It could be anyone. Maybe some rebellious teenagers who just wanted to catch a glimpse of the famous _Sherlock Homes_." John teased with a small smirk. He saw Sherlock roll his eyes and shake his head. John winced, exhaled loudly, and went about convincing himself otherwise.

"Let's do this slowly. What do we know?" John asked, feeling as if he was really just thinking aloud, as Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him.

"The cabin in the woods was blown to pieces by someone with something against you." John stated, moving his hands as if to guide the words.

"Well that could be anyone." John shrugged.

Sherlock froze, and glared at John, releasing a rather large sigh that caught him off guard. "It's him, John." Sherlock grunted and watched as John took a bite of his nearly empty bowl of some sort of pasta. As almost always, he was too busy to eat.

"But Sherlock-" John started but much to his surprise, the waiter quickly interrupted him. John glanced up at the tall man, dressing in his fancy suit and tie, his waist rounded widely for such a skinny body, almost as if he had an extremely exaggerated belt.

"Can I get you two anything else?" The waiter asked, rather rushed. John shook his head, eager to get back to talking with Sherlock.

"No thank you, just the bill." John smiled politely, and turned back to Sherlock, however, not before having his gaze interrupted again.

"You sure? No dessert?" The waiter forced a grin.

John shook his head once more, and answered sternly this time, "No, thank you, we need to be on our way." John sighed, frustrated by the pushy man. Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes at the server, watching with a peculiar expression swarming his features.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, sir." The waiter stated, still in his polite tone of voice.

John whirled his head to face the waiter, and then peered over at Sherlock.

That's when the man reached under his jacket, where his waist was largely widened, and pulled out a small handgun. John froze, panic threatening to consume him, and Sherlock didn't show a twinge of concern, even though the man pointed the gun directly at his dark brown head of curls. John glared at the man, disbelief clouding his better judgment, as he threw his hands in the air as an act of surrender. But it wasn't him needed to surrender. _It was Sherlock_. The one this stranger was threatening to shoot. However, Sherlock was undisturbed by the weapon in his face that could end his life in a split second. It was as if he had expected this would happen. John cringed, and then quickly turned to the other customers, whom had been sitting in their chairs all along. None of them had budged. They simple went about their business. No screams, or quick rushes to call the police.

John opened his mouth to call out to them, but was instantly interrupted.

"Don't waste your breath, John Watson. They work for _me_." An unfamiliar, profound voice echoed through the small diner. In his peripheral vision, John saw Sherlock turn in the direction the voice had emanated the loudest, his expression turning into a stale, thoughtless emotion. John was suddenly outraged, as he took a guess at who was threatening his best friend's life. _You've certainly got my attention now_, John thought.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stiffened, as the man was finally revealed.

He was tall, skinny, and oddly sinister. His hair was a dark black, mixing with frail specks of gray and white, showing his older age. He wasn't cleanly shaven, however he also wasn't overwhelmed by facial hair either. His eyes seemed to stare you down, intimidating you with a single glance, as they burned in ranges of pride and obsession. "You're quite a hard man to get a hold of." The dark man chuckled, with a devilish smirk. "Had to blow up something just to set up a meeting!"

John grimaced, grinding his teeth in hatred at the conniving man.

The stranger swayed slowly over to where John and Sherlock sat, the waiter still holding out the gun.

"Your reputation has me glad I didn't choose to shoot you that night."

John jerked forward in blazing rage, and the gunman grew tense with caution. As Sherlock flinched in his seat, his eyes glazing over with aggravation, John felt the need to counter the man's smart remarks.

"If you don't get that gun out of his face, you might wish you had."John grunted, glaring at the harsh man.

Sherlock remained quiet.

"Oh, what's wrong Sherlock? You have your doctor threatening me for you now?"

The man snickered deviously. The waiter clicked the gun.

"Hey!" John exclaimed and stared wide-eyed at the two enemies, glancing back over at an unaffected Sherlock.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes. Don't be shy." He seemed to order, staring both John and Sherlock down with motionless eyes. Sherlock stayed completely and utterly silent.

"Sherlock." John sighed, shutting his eyes tightly, begging that his best friend just say a word, make a noise.

"Yes, _Sherlock._" The man mocked and chuckled devilishly.

When Sherlock still didn't answer the threat of the gun, John turned to the sinister being. "Please." He pleaded, shaking his head in desperation.

"Oh, Watson. Don't beg _me_." He shifted closer towards Sherlock, inferring that John instead beg him. But John only stared at his companion. He was distant. As if he wasn't even there at all.

"Sir?" The waiter questioned, holding the gun firmly between his pale hands.

"Shame, Sherlock. After all this work just to find you." He sighed almost sincerely. "Shoot him."

Sherlock turned his torso towards the man with frozen eyes. And just as the attendant went to pull the trigger, John lunged forward.


	9. You Shot Me

**Sorry its so short! Had a busy day today! But I have more coming! Definitely a lot tomorrow! Thank you for reading everyone! Thanks to ****CiCi98****, Lauren, and ****ObsessedFangirl221B****for sticking with it of course! Personally, I am pretty happy with this chapter. :3**

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><p>The bullet whizzed past John, but he was too angry to notice. He swung himself forward at the waiter, knocking the gun from his hand, and shoving him to the floor. He landed with a thump and a yelp as he banged his head on the hard, white tile floor. Suddenly, a hand, grasping John's shirt, yanked him backwards. He soon came eye to eye with the sinister man. The stranger was glaring, his eyes clouded by rage John had never seen before. "Dr. Watson, you idiot!" The man yelled furiously at John, who simply stared with an intensified gaze. He couldn't be sure whether he was angry that John had injured his waiter, or simply because he had interfered. John guessed the latter of the two.<p>

As John peered at the man, he acknowledged the others in the diner. They were on their feet now, more awake than ever, glaring at John with alert expressions. It took him a while to realize, the devilish being who held him firmly next to him, was pointing. John turned to look.

Sherlock was sat hunched over in the diner booth, staring wide-eyed at his shoulder, oozing warm blood.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed and flew towards him, but was instantly jerked back again by the same man. The very man who was enraging John with an insane amount of hatred and disgust. He could feel his cheeks burning as he watched his best friend sitting in pain, gazing blankly at his wounded shoulder.

"Are you ready to speak _now_, Mr. Holmes?" The man snapped, still outraged with John's behavior. Sherlock seemed plagued by disbelief, and John was simply blinded by concern.

"You shot me." Sherlock grunted, staring at his injury now with an oddly nonchalant expression.

"Well, technically Mr. Mathews on the floor there did, but greatly deduced." The man snickered, smirking widely, as he hinted at sarcasm.

"But you need me." Sherlock prolonged the words, and turned to gaze at the sinister man in the eyes for the first time. John stiffened in his stance.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. _Well done_." The man grinned, "However, what good are you to me if you refuse to cooperate anyways?" He shrugged and smiled deviously down at Sherlock.

"Good point." Sherlock nodded. John narrowed his eyes.

"You need to know, Sherlock Holmes, that I do, in fact, have control over whether you live or die." The man spoke with such an eerie tone, John felt himself shudder.

Sherlock, then, smiled at him. John watched his arrogant smirk, sensing mixed emotions of sadness, over confidence, and pure revulsion, as he still clutched onto his burning shoulder, dripping red liquid onto the table, seat, and floor.

"We'll be in touch." The man chuckled and let go of John's shirt.

John felt himself exhale a breath of relief; thankful this confrontation was nearly over. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "How do I find you?"

The man turned to him grinning widely, "You won't have to. I'll find you."

He motioned his hand, and the waiter, still lying on the floor, his head pounding, shot up to follow his commander out the doors of the diner.

John took a glance around. The others who had been there to stand guard were gone as well, silent in their quick exit. John let out a much-needed breath of air, nearly toppling over in his weak stance.

"Sherlock." John swallowed and inched towards him, hurrying to slide his small brown jacket off. He folded it up into a ball and pressed it down hard onto Sherlock's crimson shoulder. John could tell Sherlock didn't want to speak, but he did anyway.

"Oh, for god's sake, John. It's only a shoulder." He uttered and rolled his eyes, whining almost like an embarrassed child; however, he didn't push John away as he continued to press down to stop the blood from flowing too fast.

"It's still a gunshot wound." John heaved, and inhaled slowly to ease his nerves.

"I've been through worse." Sherlock mumbled and shook his head.

The man had jumped off a roof, gotten tortured for information, and had been shot through the stomach. He _certainly had_ been through worse.

"We need to get you to a hospital." John sighed, and began helping Sherlock up from the booth.

"Please. What can they do that you can't?" Sherlock rolled his eyes once more with an arrogant scowl.

John shook his head. "Give you _proper_ medical treatment." He helped his friend to his feet, balancing him as he swayed unsteadily, and aided him in his struggle towards the exit.

"I need to see Lestrade." Sherlock grunted as he inched his way out.

"Fine, Sherlock. But can we get you sorted out first?" John asked, exhausted with Sherlock's fast-paced, genius mind.

"If we must." Sherlock huffed and walked alongside John, stepping onto an empty sidewalk. After a few moments of much-needed silence, Sherlock spoke.

"Well," He began, "At least we didn't have to pay for the bill."

With all that his nerves had been through, John let out a laugh that louder than expected.


	10. Thank You

**Wow, can't believe I have nine people following my fic already! Thank you so much to,****_ here we go with a list_****: ****BoffinPenwings****, ****Candi Liam****, ****CiCi98**** (as always :3), ****CrazyCoffeeKat****, i****cecat62****, ****ObsessedFangirl221B**** (read her AMAZING fic!), ****amberaylin****, i****mvictorious****, and finally ****ravenoak21****! Really really appreciate it guys! :) warms mah heaaaart. :3 Anyways, enjoy, and remember I LOVE reviews! So please leave some! Sorry for the short chapters! It works better with my schedule. :P**

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><p>The ambulance had arrived by the time John got a hold of Detective Inspector Lestrade.<p>

"Hello?" His baritone voice answered.

"Lestrade, Sherlock's been shot." John sighed, still getting his head around the fact himself.

"What? By who?" He exclaimed with a tone of disbelief and concern.

John froze. He didn't actually know his name.

"Listen, there is a lot you don't know about Redbeard." John told his friend over the phone.

"Yeah, I looked him up. The crime report isn't very informative. They've got just about nothing on him." Lestrade stated with a curious tone of voice.

"Just meet me at the hospital. And hurry. I have a feeling we won't be there long," John exhaled with irritation, "Sherlock is quite eager to do some damage."John could almost hear Lestrade's nod over the phone. Before he could say another word, John was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He jumped and spun around, his arms raised in preparation for anything. The nurse standing there stared with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry." John apologized and threw a hand over his forehead in both embarrassment and stayed quiet on the phone.

"Rough night?" The nurse asked with a sad, yet comforting smile.

John nodded, "You could say so."

She sighed and exaggerated sigh with a raise of her shoulders, "Sorry to interrupt, your phone call, but he's asking for you." She informed John politely. John turned to stare at the ambulance, packing up its things, preparing to drive off.

John smiled wearily for a split second and then gave the nurse a nod. "Thanks."

She grinned and rushed off towards the ambulance. John turned back to his phone call. "Lestrade, I've got to go. Meet me there." Without waiting for a reply, John ended the call, and jogged towards the bright flashing lights of the ambulance.

"Sherlock." John huffed as he stared at his best friend. He was laying there, in the gurney, a smirk of arrogance on his expression, his arm bandaged, and an angry EMT beside him.

"Sir, we need to leave." He ordered to John, to which John quickly nodded. "Yes, may I?" He asked and pointed to a seat in the back of the ambulance. "Of course." The EMT suggested and hurriedly shut the back of the vehicle once John had gotten comfortable.

John glared at Sherlock as the ambulance roared to life, taking off against the hard gravel road. Sherlock gazed back, with a shrug set firmly on his shoulders.

"Lestrade is meeting us there." John stated to break the silence. Sherlock bobbed his head and sighed.

"Make sure he doesn't video me this time." Sherlock commanded John, to which he couldn't help but grin weakly. "I'll still take the morphine though." Sherlock added, receiving a dirty look from the EMT. John rolled his eyes, as Sherlock put on an innocent expression.

But suddenly, his features fell flat and he turned to look at John with squinting eyes. John tilted his head, confused by his friend's rapid change in mood.

"He would have killed me." Sherlock mumbled, but John heard the words clear as day. "He would have killed me if you hadn't intervened." He said louder, gazing right at John with an unrecognizable expression.

John swallowed, and nodded his head slowly, feeling the need to look down at the ground, as if he were embarrassed.

"Thank you." Sherlock stated, and John's head whirled to face him dead on. John gulped and watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, moving away from the conversation. He should have known. _Gratitude_ wasn't a reoccurring theme with his best friend, and was rare to catch a glimpse of. But John simply smiled, and sighed a prolonged sigh.

"Sherlock?" He called out to him.

Sherlock didn't respond, but part of him twitched in acknowledgement.

"Who was that?" John questioned, "I mean, what was his name?"

Sherlock's eyes opened, but only stared up at the ceiling.

"I can't be positive, as Oliver and I never found out _for sure_. _But_ if we _were_ right in our investigating, his name is _Walter E. King_."

John narrowed his eyes, "Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Do you think you _were_ right?" John asked, with sympathetic eyes.

Sherlock swallowed uneasily. "I do."

John nodded, "Then we got our man." His attempt to comfort Sherlock was weak but he saw him smirk slightly, almost thankful for the small act to ease his frustrations.

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><p>"Lestrade." John greeted the Detective Inspector as he swayed through the hospital doors. "John." He bobbed his head once, and sighed rather loudly.<p>

"They're stitching him up as we speak." John shrugged and shook his good friend's hand. "Should be finished any minute now."

"Good." Greg let out a sigh of relief. "Any idea who did this?"

John nodded, "I'av. But I think you should discuss that with Sherlock."

Lestrade inhaled deeply, "Alright."

"Not now, though." John stated as Lestrade looked up at him with raised eyebrows. "I'm sure he's asked for a bucket load of morphine." John sighed and smiled wearily.

Lestrade smirked, and reached into his pocket, pulling out his camera phone.

"Sorry, Lestrade." John started, "But I've been ordered to make sure you _don't_ record him this time."

Greg gazed at John with narrowed eyes, and then began to chuckle, to which John joined in. Suddenly, they were interrupted at the Detective Inspector's phone chimed loudly, piercing John's ears with a high pitched dinging. Lestrade stared down at his phone. Soon, his face fell into a deep abyss of perplexed emotions, as the screen's light reflected along the ridge's of his face.

"What is it, Detective?" John asked curiously.

"Its," Lestrade swallowed and then turn to stare at John with wide eyes, "It's Sherlock."

John jerked his head forward, "What?" Lestrade handed him the phone willingly. John took hold of it and narrowed his eyes.

It read: **Graham, why is there an insanely large amount of patrol cars sitting outside 221B? Remove them at once. -SH**

John rolled his eyes at the screen and heaved a large irritated sigh. He texted back, quite sure that Sherlock wasn't in the mood to answer a phone call.

**Sherlock, how the hell did you get to Baker?**

Lestrade stood, looking over John's shoulder for the reply. It took a moment but he wrote back.

**Ah, hello John. Yes, I took a cab. –SH**

John wasn't surprised that Sherlock could use his deductive reasoning, even through text. He exhaled in frustration, shaking his head. He handed the phone back to Lestrade, and marched towards the hospital exit. "John?" Lestrade called out.

"Sorry, Lestrade. Come by Baker Street, later." John huffed with a shrug as he hurried out the door.

"I have to take care of Sherlock Holmes right now." John growled, and waved an effortless wave to Greg before disappearing to find a cab.


	11. Insignificant

**Heyyy guyyys! Sorry for my tardiness, hate to keep you all waiting. See heres the thing, I have tendonitis in my hand lol, so I'm not exactly supposed to type and so I got yelled at annnnnddddd...carried on typing anyway! Hah! :) it's painful, but I can't leave this fic, I am so proud of it! Also! This chapter is a bit longer, thought you guys needed a good firm chapter. :) mostly mind palace, this one. :D**

**Thanks to everyone who is continuously reading, and reviewing! I love reviews so please leave them!**

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><p><em>"Sherlock, that's a big responsibility." She stated sternly, staring down at her son with gentle eyes. "Obviously." The clever, young teenager shrugged with narrowed eyes, holding the red leash that led to the red dog. "Hun, can you care for the life of another?" She asked softly with a large sigh. "I expect so." He stated with a hint of hesitation. His father grunted from the kitchen counter as he sipped a cup of tea, "You'll need to walk it, feed it, play with it." He informed his son. "I am aware." Sherlock huffed in irritation, frustrated by the way his parents were speaking to him, as if they seemed to think he was incredibly stupid. "And don't even think about expecting me to watch him for you." His older brother snapped with a shake of his head. Sherlock sighed and stood up straight. "I'm keeping Redbeard. He's my partner in crime. My first mate." Sherlock smiled and placed his fists on his hips, his grip tightening around the dogs leash. "And those of you who object, will have to challenge the most dangerous pirate on the seas!" He exclaimed as he sprinted from the room, his dark curls bouncing, grabbing his black pirate hat from the sofa, and dashing into the outside world, not before he called out, "Arg!" <em>

_The dog simply followed, barking and jumping with pure excitement. _

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><p>Sherlock shook the memories from his head, as they attempted to overrun his concentration. He couldn't allow that. Not with this Walter character out and about. The man needed to be punished. Sherlock was intent on carrying his punishment out himself. Sherlock only heard the door fly open, as his eyes were closed in an act to visit his mind palace. If this was John, the mind palace would most certainly have to wait.<p>

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, anger in his tone of voice as he stared at his friend, sprawled out in his black chair, his eyes shut tightly. He legs were crossed and his arm, the one with the injured shoulder, was held up by a hanging splint. John was actually surprised Sherlock hadn't removed it.

"Hello, John." Sherlock sighed, "What took you so long?" John rolled his eyes and stomped towards the kitchen. He needed some coffee. Cigarettes were to Sherlock, as coffee was to John. He slammed his finger down on the kettle, and waited for the water to boil. He turned to look at Sherlock's, who was blindly staring up at the ceiling. John wasn't sure what to deduce about his friend's emotions at the moment. He seemed in a world of bliss, yet oddly panicked.

"What is it, John?"

John quickly turned away and cleared his throat. "Um, how did you leave the hospital so fast?" It wasn't what he wanted to ask but he was unsure of how much Sherlock could take in one day.

"I was convincing." Sherlock sighed, his eyes still closed.

"Convincing?" John asked with raised eyebrows, building his cup of coffee.

"Yes, John." Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to gaze at his flat mate. "And by convincing I mean as soon as they finished the stitches I snuck out the window."

John couldn't help but chuckle and nod, as he figured that's what he had done.

"Now if you could please leave me be, I need to go to my mind palace." Sherlock stated with a long exhalation.

John stiffened, "Sure." He took hold of his coffee, and moved down to his small arm chair. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Sherlock dug deep into the memories, and rooms of his absolutely baffling mind.

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><p>Sherlock swayed down the long corridor, his eyes fixed on one memory in particular. <em>The death of Oliver J. Jones.<em>

"Sherlock, you know you shouldn't go that deep." The dissatisfying voice rang in his ears. He turned to his older brother, a scowl piercing his expression. "Mycroft, must you always get involved?" He scolded, and rolled his eyes as he continued down the empty, lonely hallway.

"This concerns your well-being, brother mine. So yes, I must."

Sherlock turned to glare at his brother.

Finally, he reached an intersection of four doors. He heard Mycroft's graceful footsteps sliding across the ground behind him.

"So brother. Which one will you choose?" He questioned with a small smirk, and interested eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The right one." He went towards the door to his right, pushing slowly so that it opened without making a single noise. He swayed awkwardly inside; hesitant with each step he took. And then he saw him, Oliver, sitting comfortably on the ground, Redbeard beside him, as he and a young Sherlock discussed the properties of a deadly, dangerous case. Sherlock waited, until the moment came where the door flew open and in stepped the man with the gun. He paused the memory, and crept gradually towards him. It was, in fact, the same man who shot him in the shoulder. Sherlock sighed and let the scene play out. Oliver was shot. Four times. And then the man smiled maniacally at a frightened boy hugging an outraged dog.

"We'll meet again, kid. One day, before I die." Just as he remembered.

Sherlock walked from the door and out to face Mycroft again. His brother stood, smiling widely with a look that said, 'I told you so'. Sherlock groaned and quickly turned to face his brother sternly. "I haven't the faintest idea what he wants from me." Sherlock stated, much to his dismay. Mycroft's grin lessened, "Who? Walter E. King?" His brother asked, with raised eyebrows. Sherlock nodded.

"Well, brother dear, how can you be sure he wants _anything_ from you?" Mycroft questioned with narrowed eyes of intrigue.

"Because. Why would he show up now? Of all times? Why let me live, when today he would simply kill me anyway?" The voice that seemed to reply to Sherlock's rhetorical questions wasn't that of his brother's. He whirled around to face him, who stood wearing his sinister grin.

"Why not?" The voice snickered, his dark eyes sinking into a black void.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Mr. King." He replied.

"Sherlock, I let you live because I could." Walter smirked, taking a step towards the detective.

"Quite the control freak aren't you?" Sherlock grinned sarcastically.

The man chuckled deviously and shook his head. "Sherlock, if you have the power to take a life, then you are unstoppable." The man stated, and instantly he was gone in a wave of black smoke, contrasted against the white walls of Sherlock's mind. Sherlock held his breath for a moment.

He reached for another door, which opened forcefully with the slightest touch, revealing the memory behind it.

_Oh, do your research. I'm not a hero; I'm a high functioning sociopath! Merry Christmas!_

Sherlock froze as the gun went off. Suddenly, his vision was blurred with red liquid. He reached upwards and laid a hand over his forehead. Lifting it, he saw the blood staining its creases in crimson. He cringed, and stared back at his memory. The memory where he had shot Magnusson in the forehead.

_If you have the power to take a life, then you are unstoppable._

Sherlock shook his head, and ran back out the door, slamming it behind him as he sprinted into the white corridor, detesting himself for what he had done. He was a killer. Just like King. But this was different, wasn't it? He had been trying to protect his friends_, his family._ But that didn't change what he was. "A murderer." Mycroft's voiced echoed through the empty hall. Sherlock cried out angrily and went for the third door. He dashed inside, shutting it hard behind him without even turning to look at the "wound" he had just reopened. John was standing over his red armchair, glaring at a past-Sherlock, sat in his own sofa chair. Sherlock stepped forward, "John." He stuttered, but he was inaudible. It was, of course, only a memory.

_There are lives at stake... Sherlock. Actual human li... Jus-just so I know, do you care about them at all?_

_Will caring about them help save them?_

_Nope._

_Then I'll continue not to make that mistake._

_And you find that easy, do you?_

_Yes. Very. Is that news to you?_

_No. No._

Sherlock cringed at the past argument unfolding in front of his eyes.

_I've disappointed you._

_That's good…that's a good deduction, yeah._

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

Sherlock shook his head at himself and sighed. If only it could be that easy. If only he didn't care. But he did. It was so much easier when it was only _his_ life on the line. But now he had others to watch out for. _Friends._

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. _

He winced and turned to exit the room. Once he returned to the white corridor, his heart constricted at who was there to greet him.

"Hello, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Her voice carried through the entire hall, soft like a melody.

"Ms. Adler." Sherlock swallowed and gazed right into her eyes. She reached forwards and gracefully took his hands in hers.

"Wasn't it you who always assumed love is a dangerous disadvantage?" She smirked devilishly and turned to walk away. "This King fellow is strong, Mr. Holmes." She stated, and spun once more to stare at Sherlock longingly. "Know when you are _beaten_." She winked and vanished.

Sherlock hesitated before entering the final door. But when he did, he was surprised to find that this memory was completely different. It was insignificant. He saw himself, in his silky, blue robe, handing a handgun to John. John seemed flustered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

_Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, confused by the random memory entering his mind.

_So you take it out on the wall?_

_The wall had it coming. _

The past-Sherlock seemed to nudge the wall, and then fall onto the couch in boredom, his blue robe flying out underneath him.

Sherlock found himself smiling at the old memory. Before he'd disappeared for two years, filling John with guilt and devastation. His smile faded.

_Some friend he was._

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><p>"Lestrade." John sighed as he got up from his red armchair, laying down the newspaper he had been reading ever so gently.<p>

"John." He greeted with a bob of his head. "Sorry for barging in so late, just wanted to make sure everything was okay." Greg sighed with a shrug.

John shooed the thought away, "It's no problem. Would you like anything?" John asked with a friendly smile. He'd had no one to talk to for the past hour, and the paper was getting quite dull.

"A hot cup of tea wouldn't be all that bad, thanks." Greg nodded and sat at the crowded table in the messy living room, bombarded by testing tubes, papers, books, and some things even John had never seen before. Lestrade turned to gaze around the room, catching sight of Sherlock, his head laid back on the cushion of his black, leather armchair, and his eyes shut peacefully, however with a slight crease above, on his forehead, like he was thinking about something extremely difficult.

"John?" Greg whispered, as John made room on the table for the detective inspector's cup of tea.

"Hm?" John hummed and sat down in front of him, his own mug in hand.

"Is Sherlock," He hesitated, as if doubting himself, "Is Sherlock sleeping?"

John let out a loud laugh and shook his head, "No, but that would be a rare sight, wouldn't it?" John chuckled softly, and Lestrade joined in.

"Then what's he doing?" He asked with a small smirk.

John sighed, "He's in his mind palace. It's like his whole body goes on autopilot. I presume he's digging through his oldest memories as we speak." John informed his friend with a simple shrug. "Let's hope he snaps out of it soon. I'm sure he still wants to speak with you about the case." John stated to Lestrade, as he continued to watch Sherlock.

"I doubt he will though." John added, "He's got a lot to think about."

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><p>Sherlock couldn't figure out the importance of the last door's purpose. That had been the day he first met Moriarty. That had also been the day he and John had almost died, but there were plenty of those. So what does it mean? <em>Why that memory?<em>

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><p>His eyes fluttered open and he lifted his head to scope out the flat. John was sitting at the table, eating an annoyingly obnoxious bowl of cereal as Sherlock rose to his feet to pace. John jumped at the sudden movement of his idle friend. "You okay?" John asked with raised eyebrows, as he pushed his cereal to the side.<p>

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock answered quickly.

"Because you were in 'mind palace' mode for two and half hours." John scoffed, with a shake of his head. Sherlock stared at his friend, "Oh."

"Lestrade came by and waited for twenty minutes, but you were totally out of it." John shook his head with disbelief at how his friend could possibly think so hard for so long a time.

"So?" John questioned, wanting to know the details.

"So, what?" Sherlock shrugged, pacing faster now.

"So, did you find anything?" John asked with a sigh.

"Find anything?" Sherlock grunted in irritation, "It's not like I go digging through the sand with my handy-dandy shovel, John."

John shut his eyes for a mere moment and chuckled softly. "Sorry."

"I have to sort through my memories. It's like I'm in a giant, never-ending file cabinet of my life." Sherlock groaned and plummeted into his chair again.

John nodded his head, used to Sherlock's dramatic explanations. "But honestly," John started, "Did you get anything valuable?"

"Nothing." Sherlock snapped, directing his anger at himself.

"You mean, you were in there for nearly three hours and you got nothing?"

"Yes, John. Must I repeat myself all the time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John shrugged, "What happened?"

"I was bombarded with useless, tormenting memories."

John looked down, "Like what?"

"We'll figure this out tomorrow." Sherlock stated, dodging John's question, much to John's dismay.

"But-" John begun, but was cut off by Sherlock's deep voice. "It's late, John. Get some rest." Sherlock disappeared down the corridor towards his bedroom.

"Sherlock!" John called out, but was only answered by the slamming of a door.


	12. He'll Break You

**Reviews, guys, reviews! :3 They make my day and really help to give me motivation to continue on! :) Hope you like the chapters, thanks of course to all those people still keeping up with the story! Means soooooo much! Sorry, for the delay. **

**THANKSGIVING BREAK! YAY! LOTS OF CHAPTERS.**

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><p>Sherlock couldn't sleep. Not when there was so much left to think about.<p>

He couldn't decipher the reason behind the random memory, the wants of Walter King, and the solution to getting rid of him. He'd attempted to return to his mind palace for the last hours of the night, but most of it just went by in larger waves of confusion. The last time he had checked the time, it was early. Around five in the morning. John was most likely deep in sleep at this time. Sherlock rose from his position on his bed, and swayed out the door. He needed another cigarette. He slammed the door behind him in outrage at his inability to solve the purpose behind Walter E. King, unbothered by the fact that he may have just woken John. He waltzed out into the living room of the flat, heading towards the coffee table, where John had tossed the small box in an act of giving up on keeping them away from him. He reached for the box and lifted it, straining to pull out a single cigarette. His hands were shaking with rage as he struggled with the small box, agitated by his own oblivion to complex facts. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He stared at the small, brown package, resting on his leather chair. In an instant, he began to panic.

"Ms. Hudson!" He called out, as loud as he possibly could. He heard a thump come from upstairs, and another from outside the flat door. John flew down the steps at exactly the same time as Ms. Hudson waddled through the doorframe.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John groaned, wiping a hand over his exhausted expression. "Must you always be so dramatic." He shook his head and sighed loudly, swaying over towards the kettle. Sherlock ignored him and turned to his landlady.

"What is that?" Sherlock snapped and pointed at the package.

She shrugged with narrowed eyes, "The postman brought it early this morning. I was going to wake you up, but I thought you might get angry."

Sherlock exhaled in irritation, as John's voice bellowed out of the kitchen. "Sherlock, it's a package. Aren't you the one with the incredible deduction skills?" John teased gently. Ms. Hudson chuckled softly, causing her wrinkles to wrinkle farther. Sherlock whirled to face John, walking quickly towards him.

"Think, John!" He exclaimed, "When do I ever get packages?"

John froze and looked to the ground, rethinking the idea. Sherlock inched back over towards the brown box sitting on his armchair.

"Better yet, when do I get packages with no return address?" Sherlock asked himself, and lifted the box slowly into his hands. John stiffened in his stance, but took a few steps forward, allowing himself to get a better view.

"Sherlock." He breathed, and swallowed deeply as his friend began to force the delivery open.

"Relax, John. I doubt he'll try to blow us up." Sherlock stated bluntly, as John shook his head with a sigh.

"Thank you, that's comforting." He grunted sarcastically.

Sherlock finally managed to open the "gift", and revealed what was inside. Sitting on a red blanket of cushion, was a handgun. Sherlock's expression twisted suspiciously, as he reached forward and clutched onto it carefully, lifting it towards his eyes to observe it more clearly.

John flinched, "A gun?"

Sherlock nodded, never looking away from the weapon. "Correct. Nicely deduced, John."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's sarcasm and took a step closer, so that he, too, was in front of the package. "There's a note."

Sherlock's attention was removed from the gun and turned back towards the box. He dropped the weapon back down gently, and went for the flimsy, white paper, which was folded in half neatly. John studied his friend's expression carefully, unable to decode what he was feeling, as his face was straight, blank, and fixed on his new gift. Sherlock opened the note and quickly read the words.

**_Ready to join me, Mr. Holmes? -WEK_**

Sherlock's expression tightened and he angrily crumpled the paper into a disorientated sphere, launching it at the yellow smiley-face he had spray-painted long ago on his wall. John was taken back by his friend's sudden reaction and he turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Sherlock?"

Suddenly, a devious smirk formed on Sherlock's expression. John raised his eyebrows and gazed at his unpredictable friend. "Of course! It's simple!" Sherlock clapped his hands and spun in a circle. "Simple?" John questioned with a sigh.

"As obvious as the _hiker and the backfire_!" Sherlock exclaimed, almost angrily and happily at the same time.

"Sorry, obvious?" John asked in aggravation. He could never keep up. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head at the good doctor.

"Don't you see, John?" He began, as John waited impatiently for an explanation.

"Why would he send me a gun? A message inviting me to join him?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up as he waited for John's solution.

"Maybe he wants to have tea?" John shrugged and Sherlock quickly shooed the words away with his hand.

"John. For once, it doesn't require _deduction_ skills." Sherlock groaned.

John quickly jerked upwards, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and hinted with a conniving smirk. "There is no alternate meaning, John."

John's eyes widened, "He actually _wants_ you to join him?"

Sherlock nodded with narrowed eyes.

"But why?" John questioned with furrowed eyebrows.

"I haven't the slightest." Sherlock huffed in aggravation.

John stared back down at the gun and took a deep breath, pondering any possible reasons. Before he could even think up an idea of any relation, his phone chimed annoyingly. Sherlock's head flinched, as he took a quick peek over at John, who was reaching for his phone.

"Lestrade." He informed Sherlock with a sigh. "He's not even bothering to text you now." John chuckled softly, with a shake of his head, as he replied to Lestrade's inquisition: if he could drop by. John gave him the okay, to which he responded with a question.

**Is Sherlock actually conscious this time? **John let out a laugh, resulting in Sherlock immediately rolling his eyes.

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><p>"Lestrade." Sherlock managed to make out as he sat tightly in his leather chair, his legs tucked underneath his arms, having thrown off his splint in rage, as he stared at the handgun resting on the coffee table.<p>

"Sherlock," Lestrade smiled softly and began, "Nice to see you, well, awake." John smirked and nodded, heading to the kitchen to offer his guest a refreshment of sorts, to which Lestrade politely turned down.

"We've hit a bit of a rocky road with the cabin case." John grunted, swaying over to his seat in front of Sherlock.

"How do you mean?" Lestrade questioned and took a seat at the cluttered table, same as he had the night before.

"Well, Sherlock received somewhat of a gift." John shrugged and pointed to the small, brown package. Lestrade narrowed his eyes and leaned forward to get a better view.

"What's it mean?" He asked, looking at Sherlock for an answer, however was responded to by John.

"Apparently the suspect wants Sherlock to join him in some way." John sighed with furrowed eyebrows, as he was still confused himself.

"Walter E. King," Sherlock began, "His name, Lestrade. Get me everything you have on him. He murdered Oliver Jones on the night of December 14th, somehow got away with it, and now somehow plans to use me for who knows what."

Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded slightly, rather taken back by the quick, sharp outburst.

"He is obsessed with the idea of _life_. _Control_." Sherlock snapped, in hatred for the man, as Lestrade and John listened intently.

"If he can't have you, he'll _break_ you."

John shuddered at Sherlock's tone of voice. There was no emotion but pure anger, rage, ferocity. However, there was a slight change in Sherlock's expression. He wore a face that didn't match up with his spoken words. _Fear_. Fear was written all over Sherlock's features.

"I guess I better get on with it then." Lestrade said, rather awkwardly as he stood, inching quietly towards the door. Once he was standing in the frame, he beckoned John towards him with a curve of his finger. John nodded and quickly followed the Detective Inspector to stand behind the door, inaudible to Sherlock's curious ears. Lestrade smiled somewhat sadly, "Take care of him, John." John tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes, however still keeping his own devastated smile. "Something is off. He's not himself." Lestrade swallowed and moved towards the stairs, prepared to leave the aura of flat 221B. John's head bobbed up and down in agreement, as he took the DI's words into account. He sighed sadly, and waved a slow goodbye to his old friend. Lestrade did the same, and vanished down the stairs.

"You okay?" John asked as he came back through the door.

"Oh, for god's sake John." Sherlock huffed, still scoping out the gun, "How many times do you possibly plan to ask me that?"

John looked down, feeling pity for his friend, as he knew that was exactly what Sherlock was trying to avoid. But lacking in human emotions, or at least _normal _human emotions, Sherlock was a difficult man to share concern with.

"If there is anything I can do to help, just let me know." John sighed, heading towards his red armchair. Sherlock's gaze didn't falter from the gun, which was shimmering now in the artificial light.

"Alright then," The detective grunted, "Pass me a cigarette."


	13. You Want Me Distracted

**Please review :3 Things will progress pretty soon, I assure you. And I mean REALLY progress. hah C: ****I don't Sherlock, but I wish I did. I did however make up this idea. :) Sherlock BBC**

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><p>John's concern was growing faster than Sherlock could pace as he yet again, traced his same circle around the flat. John swallowed, tempted to pose his idea; an idea to get Sherlock's attention away from this 'Cabin Fever' case.<p>

"No, John." Sherlock grunted, causing John to spring in his cushioned chair at the sudden break of silence. Yet again, he was confronted with the insane thought that the detective could read minds.

"I didn't say-" John began but was instantly interrupted.

"You want me distracted." Sherlock sighed, his eyes focusing on the note resting between two of his pale fingers. _Ready to join me, Mr. Holmes? _

Sherlock winced, and shook his head quickly.

John cleared his throat, "Sherlock, it could help. Clear your head, and all."

Sherlock glared at the doctor, "Clear my head, John? _My_ head?" He snapped and shook his head yet again, in outrage.

John exhaled calmly and nodded at his friend. "I know Lestrade is stumped by one at the moment."

Sherlock scoffed and raised his chin knowingly. "Shocker." He wiggled his shoulders in a sarcastic movement and rolled his eyes.

John let out a huff of frustration and crossed his arms over his torso. "Sherlock, we have to wait for him to make his next move anyway." John informed his friend with a shrug. Sherlock plummeted down into his leather chair, kicking his feet forwards in impatience. "I am aware."

John smiled gently and nodded, "Then, let's go." John got to his feet. Sherlock looked up at him with narrowed eyes. Finally, he gave in and flew upwards, grabbing his coat and scarf, and following his blogger out the door.

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><p>"Well, I've got three in that have proven to be quite difficult." Lestrade shrugged with a chuckle. Sherlock raised an eyebrow mockingly, knowing Lestrade couldn't solve any 'difficult' ones without him.<p>

"So, we can just take our pick?" John smiled with a bob of his head towards the DI. He nodded and gestured towards the three files laid out before the team of two.

Sherlock immediately picked them up, narrowing his eyes as he read. "Boring." He boasted and tossed the first file down. Lestrade stiffened. "Boring." Sherlock sighed angrily, ridding himself of the next group of papers as well. However, when he reached the third stack of evidence and information, he froze. "Now this sounds interesting." He smirked a rather devious smirk and leaned forward, intrigued by the words lacing the file.

"Wait, what about the other two?" Lestrade swallowed, eager to know if Sherlock had solved them already or not.

"The first: the _postman's_ your culprit." Sherlock grunted, causing Lestrade to inch closer, and John to flicker in amusement.

"What, really?" Lestrade exclaimed, watching Sherlock curiously, shocked by his statement.

"He has a background of mental illnesses; according to his biography, which you included in the file. So in fact, you were on to _something_ Lestrade. _Nice_." Sherlock informed the two men, in his usual speedy voice. John just stood, grinning ridiculously.

"It also states in fine print, that he recently suffered a loss. The loss of his sister, to be specific. Something like grief can play a huge role in a mental problem, Gavin." Sherlock explained, instantly cut off at the end by the Detective Inspector. "Greg." He growled, as Sherlock tilted his head. "What?"

"My name's Greg." Lestrade croaked and shook his own head in disgrace.

"Yes, right. May I continue?" Sherlock remarked, with a firm, eager expression. Lestrade sighed and gestured him onward. "Something inside the man snapped when he was approached by, most likely yelled with complaints, by the victim, who lived in the house he was depositing mail to. Maybe he wasn't doing his job right, maybe he was being nosy. I won't go too into detail because it doesn't matter." Sherlock seemed to snicker at himself in some sort of rage.

"He murdered her." Sherlock breathed with a shrug.

Lestrade swallowed and shook his head in embarrassment. "Alright, but we need evidence to prove that, Sherlock." Lestrade groaned at the detective.

"Then find some. Now that you know what you're looking for, it shouldn't be too hard." Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the file in his hand.

"I can't do your _whole_ job for you, Lestrade." Sherlock smirked, staring directly at John and pleased by his response; a silent chuckle. Lestrade exhaled in aggravation and pointed to the second file.

"And that one?" He asked, reluctantly.

"Oh, the _murder_ in the movie theater?" Sherlock questioned with raised eyebrows, and a steady grin swarming his expression. John jerked forward in interest as Lestrade nodded. "Not murder." Sherlock smirked widely as John's mouth opened slightly, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Suicide." The consulting detective added.

Lestrade shot up in confusion, "No, hang on! You're always saying suicides are murders. Not the other way around!" Lestrade gasped, his mouth gaped open.

Sherlock didn't stir. "The case file, explaining the victim, states she has had a previous history with dugs. Now, it also says she has a therapist. What does that tell you?" Sherlock questioned the other two men like they were clueless goldfish, swimming round and round in their globe shaped tank.

"Depression?" John cocked his head, pondering Sherlock's deductions.

"Precisely John, well done." Sherlock smiled, as John did the same, proud he could impress the noble detective. "This young girl was obviously not happy, so she overdosed in the theater bathroom."

Lestrade quickly intervened, "Hold on, she died in her seat. In front of the movie screen. At least, that's where we found her." Lestrade stated to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, "Of course. The drugs took a moment to set in. Allowing her enough time to finish watching the movie, before she died effortlessly in front of the end credits." Sherlock grinned widely, impressed with himself.

Lestrade froze, and then instantly busted into a laugh. "You can't be serious."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and added more to the description, "Her friend, did you pay any attention to her statement? That should be enough alone. She firmly states that her friend was awake when she returned from the bathroom, and lying with no pulse after the movie. Come on, Lestrade." Sherlock groaned and sighed loudly, and dramatically, looking to the file in his hand, eager to get a move on.

John cleared his throat and stepped forward, "So!" He exclaimed to break the tension, and look of shame Lestrade was wearing. "What's so special about the one you got in your hands then?" John questioned with raised eyebrows, smiling gently at Sherlock's conniving grin.

Sherlock looked up from his reading. "It's _actually_ interesting." Sherlock seemed to wiggle as the excitement of a solvable case came swarming back again. John let out a breath of relief, feeling some of the worry lifted from his shoulders. At least for now.

"Alright, what you got?" Lestrade's grunt broke the mysterious, somewhat light, mood filling every corner of his office.

"Shakespeare." Sherlock breathed softly, a wide, rather cynical, grin revealing itself in every outline of his expression.

"Shakespeare?" John asked with wide eyes.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, Shakespeare. English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist."

John rolled his eyes at his friend's immense knowledge, of which he wasn't required to share.

"And why Shakespeare?" Lestrade asked, sincerely interested. John shifted, awaiting a peculiar answer.

Sherlock grinned yet again, this time in pure excitement, "Their deaths."

Lestrade and John both jerked forward at the same time.

"The woman took a dagger through the heart, the man was dosed with poison. Sound like anything familiar?" Sherlock questioned, his eyes sparkling as they waited for someone to state the correct solution.

John stepped forward, growing more and more addicted to the certain case at hand. "Romeo and Juliet."

Sherlock's head bobbed up and down as he went on, "Someone, obviously a huge fan of Shakespeare, is going on a killing spree." Sherlock slammed the file shut and swayed hurriedly from Lestrade's office, a smile fresh on his features.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer!" He exclaimed, "Just what I need!"

John rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade as Sherlock disappeared from view.

"Thank you, Greg." John sighed and turned to follow behind his impatient flat mate.

Lestrade nodded, and took a small step towards the doctor. "John," He began, "I just thought you should know," He hesitated as he gazed over at his friend, "We've got just about nothing."

John tilted his head slightly, "Nothing?" He asked, slightly confused.

Lestrade grunted, "Nothing on any Walter E. King." He added, and John raised his chin slowly taking in the information. He then smiled a weary smile and turned to leave before Lestrade added, "Except," John spun back to face him. "The fact that he _died_ ten years ago." Lestrade finished.

The good doctor froze, nodded, and then sprinted out the door.

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><p><strong>Reviews please guys(: They really help me. Great motivation! :3<strong>


	14. 16:02

**Sorry for the shortness guys. :3 (slams head down with brute force.) It's late here and I my day was a bit bonkers. Anyways, ****remember! Tell me what you think by reviewing :D Its much appreciated! And thank you to all the new people following, and to everyone that has reviewed already! It means so much to me! Really, it does. :3 who's excited about the Imitation Game? C:**

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><p>Bring it up? Or keep quiet? John had no idea. Perhaps he already knew? However, Sherlock seemed to know nothing of the man, apart from a name, what he was capable of, and the fact that he shot a good friend many years ago.<p>

As John watched Sherlock now, moving swiftly among the lifeless bodies sprawled out along metal slabs, his hesitation to mention this new piece of information grew. Sherlock was only just calming down, and falling into his deduction state of mind. John wasn't eager to interrupt that. Not by choice. His friend hadn't appeared this ecstatic in days, and it had begun to twist his nerves into strains of concern.

"Perfect." Sherlock muttered to himself, with a small smirk. Molly stood to the side, holding herself nervously in her white lab coat, peering at Sherlock with narrowed eyes as he gazed down at the cadavers. John took a step forward, deciding to store the new tidbit of information to the back of his mind. For now.

"What is it?" John asked, staring at Sherlock, somewhat amused yet disturbed by his silent smirk.

"Aconite." Sherlock swallowed and raised his chin upwards.

"Aconite?" John froze; his lip twitched due to his unsettled nerves. Molly tilted her head and waited for the explanation from both men standing before her. John cleared his throat and carefully observed the pale, dark-haired man lying dead on the table.

"Aconite acts by disrupting the normal ion balance in heart muscle cells, thus inducing a rapid heart rate." Sherlock explained, biting his lip as he stared down at the motionless young man. "The poison Romeo was sought to have consumed was never clearly specified. _However_, it has been speculated to be Aconite." Sherlock peered over at John, as if expecting the idea to visibly affect him as he discovered the purpose behind the poisoning.

"It is explained as a fast-paced poison. It would be a quick, excruciating, way to go." Sherlock shrugged, as if unbothered by the information he laid out. John winced and narrowed his eyes.

"So the killer is definitely copying Shakespeare's literature?" John shook his head in disgust as Sherlock nodded a confirmation.

"How sick do you have to be to plan out these things?" John asked aloud, not expecting an answer, but Sherlock spoke up.

"It depends, John. As I've said before, I can't be the only one that gets _bored_." John grimaced and sighed loudly at his friend's simple bluntness.

Molly only stared in confusion at the two men. "So, how do you plan to catch him?" She questioned, breaking the now almost awkward silence.

Sherlock suddenly grinned and shook his head, "There aren't enough clues." John turned quickly to his friend, confused by his statement. "This killer was clean. Precise. He knew what he was doing." Sherlock mumbled loudly to himself.

"_He_?" John asked, wondering if it had any relation to a suspect.

"Balance of probability." Sherlock shrugged, and John simply nodded.

"So what do we do?" John interrogated as he gazed at his friend who stood there, his arms crossed over his dark trench coat, his brown curls hanging just slightly along his forehead.

"We wait." Sherlock uttered. An emotion of self-loathing flickered over his expression.

"_Wait_? What, wait for another innocent person to die?" John asked in a whirl of disbelief, staring at his friend with wide eyes.

"I don't have enough information, John." Sherlock seemed to sigh as if he had been defeated.

John shook his head with a scoff, "You're Sherlock bloody Holmes! You find more information!"

Molly seemed to stiffen uncomfortably at the unfolding argument. Sherlock was then only glaring at John, his eyes closing as if he was entering his mind palace at the same time. "Sherlock?" John questioned after a moment. Sherlock flinched but didn't respond. John sighed and faced the ground, awaiting a reply to his sharp yell of anger. Suddenly, a loud clap echoed in the dreary silence of the morgue. John whirled up to face his friend.

"Oh, how could I have been so stupid?" Sherlock exclaimed, and a grin pierced his expression. John raised an eyebrow, "Have you got something?"

Sherlock turned to gaze and John and then nodded with an almost cynical grin of pride.

"I need to speak to Lestrade." In the blink of an eye, Sherlock was dashing out of the morgue, his trench coat following behind elegantly. John sighed, sent a thankful gesture to Molly, and hurried after the detective.

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><p>"You going to share your brilliant observation with me anytime soon?" John asked sarcastically with a small smile, as he turned to the slender man, hunched over in the cab, typing away on his phone. Sherlock's head rose upward and he focused his full attention on the doctor sitting beside him.<p>

"In the report I looked over in Lestrade's file, there were several pictures displaying the crime scene." Sherlock started, gazing intently at John.

"I'd expect so." John grunted and narrowed his eyes, unsure where Sherlock was going with his explanation.

"Of course, I took in every detail of the photographs, keeping them safe in my mind in case I required them further." Sherlock stated and John nodded. "The more you argued with me that we couldn't just wait and do nothing, I decided I should explore all my options once more."

John bobbed his head up and down in confirmation that he understood where Sherlock was going, "So you revisited the photographs."

Sherlock tilted his chin to the side in a sort of nod as he spoke with his eyes narrowed.

"I noticed something odd." Sherlock swallowed, and John instantly leaned in closer to the situation.

"The report said clearly, as diagnosed, that the crime took place around midnight."

John shook his head in confusion, "There are plenty of murderers running about at that time." John shrugged, puzzled by Sherlock's point.

"That's not it though, John." Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

John sighed, "Okay. What is it then?"

Sherlock grinned, "Don't you see John! It's not only the time, but also the time!" John froze completely. This is when he felt utterly stupid for not understanding Sherlock's thinking process. "Right. Wait, what?"

Sherlock shook his head, the smile still standing.

"In the picture, there was a digital clock."

John nodded slowly, "Alright."

"And the time on that digital clock was wrong." Sherlock added, with raised eyebrows, expecting an answer from John. When John didn't reply, and only stared, Sherlock continued.

"The clock worked in military time. The time read 16:02."

John sighed, "Okay, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock swallowed and went on, "Think about it John. The time was set wrong and we are dealing with a literary genius who lived throughout part of the 1600s."

John was beginning to understand the clue.

"As I thought on, I discovered something." Sherlock exhaled deeply, struggling to contain his poorly hidden excitement.

"What?" John asked, thoroughly intrigued by the case now.

"The time was 16:02." Sherlock smirked, "Hamlet was performed in 1602."

John froze, and gazed up at the consulting detective with an expression that revealing the current epiphany he was experiencing.

Sherlock nodded, "I think we have our next murder story."


	15. Ophelia

**Yay! Longer chapter by far! I deduce that this story now has a few spoilers from season three so :3 ...yeve been warned, savvy...**

**Message to my good friend ObsessedFangirl221B: _It's really sad to hear that. :C I love your story so much. If you do in fact choose to stop posting I would sincerely loooooove to receive it from you so that I can read it till the end! I really do love it! :3 Please let me know! pm me or review ;D _**

**Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing and following, means a bunch !So then! Onward to the chapter!**

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><p>"Hamlet?" Lestrade questioned with raised eyebrows, as he gazed suspiciously at the dark-haired detective, and occasionally back down at the file he held, revealing the photograph. Sherlock nodded with a wide smirk, and turned to John as if asking for a statement.<p>

John swallowed, "You have to admit, it makes sense." John shrugged and Sherlock simply smiled and faced Lestrade again.

Lestrade sighed loudly, "So where do we go with this?"

Sherlock placed his fingertips under his chin, processing the question long and hard, as if dissecting its very core.

"Romeo and Juliet both committed suicide. I'm thinking he's going to stick to that pattern." Sherlock breathed softly and narrowed his eyes at his own hypothesis. John cleared his throat and lifted his chin awaiting more from his friend.

"Ophelia." Sherlock exhaled deeply, eyes widened as he stared at both John and the detective inspector.

"Ophelia?" John questioned and crossed his arms over his chest in suspicion.

Sherlock nodded, "Ophelia, driven insane by Hamlet's cruelty and the murder of her beloved father, plunges from a tree branch into the current below. Although her fall is an accident, Ophelia makes no attempt to save herself, and thus her drowning is viewed as a suicide." Sherlock was stating the words so clearly; John was shocked by his knowledge of Shakespeare's work.

Lestrade cut in, "So, you think we are going to find a body in a river?" Sherlock gazed at the DI and then nodded with an intelligent smirk. John couldn't help but smile as he put the puzzle together himself.

"Indeed." Sherlock grunted, "I believe the River Thames is a worthy location."

John turned to Lestrade with a grin as Sherlock began to leave his office.

"I'll put my best officers on it." Lestrade confirmed with a smile.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "No, Graham." He began, "You'll put your moderately good officers on it, because, in fact, John and I are certainly the best you have, and we are not your officers." Sherlock winked and vanished from the office, just as he had done hours earlier. John stared down at the floor, scoffed, and then turned back towards the exhausted DI.

"He's like an arrogant teenager." Lestrade huffed with a small chuckle, and John just shrugged. He was used to it.

"Have you told him?" Lestrade then asked, as his face turned to all seriousness. John fixed his full attention back on the inspector.

"No." John grunted with a sigh. "I couldn't find the right time."

Lestrade winced at this and shifted uncomfortably as he put down the 'Shakespeare' case file. "You need to tell him, John." Lestrade shrugged, with an almost desperate expression. John nodded, and hurried to chase Sherlock down again, leaving the DI to himself in his cluttered office.

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><p>Sherlock was hailing a cab, when John finally caught up with him.<p>

"Dinner?" John questioned as he let out a deep breath, his air turning to a cloud in the cold breeze.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I'm starved, however I believe I would prefer to order in. The last occurrence I had at a public diner wasn't my best." Sherlock winked to John with a clever smirk, and John instantly chuckled.

"Chinese?" He suggested.

"Chinese." Sherlock confirmed.

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><p>John watched as Sherlock stayed completely quiet in his seat. He hadn't touched the strange mix of noodles in front on him, and was instead staring off into the black hole of his tightly shut eyes. John had been replying to missed texts and emails from Mary while Sherlock continued to zone out. John had taken some time away from their little house in the suburbs to deal with Sherlock after…well, after the whole 'Miss me?' situation. Mary had patiently complied with his request to stay in 221B for a while, and they still stayed in contact. John was pretty sure he just wanted Sherlock in his sights to make sure he didn't go and jump off a rooftop again. So far, not a word had been broadcasted since, dealing with the consulting criminal that is, and Mycroft had assured John he would call when they were needed. The unbeatable duo, that is.<p>

_The consulting detective and the army doctor._

So John hadn't mentioned it, or _him_, really. And he wouldn't. _For now. _He didn't want to worry Sherlock even more than he already was. This _Walter E. King_ fellow gave him the shivers, and in turn, he couldn't imagine the way he made Sherlock feel. This was a personal case. And so John would be there for his friend. Especially when the chances of him getting shot again are so very high.

His phone vibrated. As John looked down once more at his phone, his breath caught. A text from Lestrade: **Details on the King fellow.**

John read the report and almost gasped aloud in utter confusion. He swallowed and decided. Now was the perfect time. He would bring it up.

"Sherlock?" John called over the silence, as he quickly slid his phone to the side, all attention fixed on his 'best man' now. Sherlock only grumbled a response and continued processing his complicated thoughts.

"Are you being honest with me?"

Sherlock sprang upwards, and turned in his seat on his black chair, so that he could get a better glimpse of the soldier.

"What kind of stupid question is that?" He snapped and rolled his eyes, then quickly closed them once more.

"That's a yes then?" John interrogated, striding towards his own chair, so that he could face the quiet detective. Sherlock nodded with a sigh, his eyes still shut.

"Well, then I should let you know," John began and Sherlock was immediately focused on his flat mate. "Lestrade did some digging."

Sherlock raised his chin, and blinked several times before gesturing John onward.

"Sherlock, Walter E. King is dead." John broke the news slowly to his friend.

Sherlock simply flinched, swallowed an incomplete swallow, and leaned forward with narrowed eyes.

"What, recently?" He asked, his voice eerily confused. John sighed and shook his head, "No, I mean he's been dead for fifteen years."

Sherlock twitched. His shut his eyes tight and then placed a shaky hand on his temple, trembling in disbelief. "What?" He repeated, and gulped unsteadily.

"Lestrade looked him up. Walter E. King. Died at age 24. Drug deal gone wrong." John stated firmly, however it didn't feel right as it left his tongue. Drug deal gone wrong? It sounds too…cliché. Sherlock was suddenly smiling when John focused his attention back to him.

"What?" John asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shook his head and smirked wider. "Oh, he's clever. Is he clever? Why's he clever?" Sherlock seemed to question his own knowledge, which wasn't unusual for his standards.

John groaned, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock got to his feet, eager to explain for once. "Walter E. King was clever. Really clever. And desperate. Undeniably desperate." Sherlock spoke quickly, to get the point across faster. "John, remember when Moriarty completely wiped his name from the system?" Sherlock asked.

John froze slightly in his seat. Sherlock hadn't exactly brought up the subject of the consulting criminal in quite sometime, at least not voluntarily, even with the current chaos, but John didn't question him. He only answered. "Of course I remember." It came out harsher than he'd expected.

Sherlock nodded, "He's done exactly the same. Except instead of just deleting himself, he decided to simply _die_." John bobbed his head, beginning to understand Sherlock's logic. Then Sherlock fell quiet. Silenced by thought. John raised his eyebrows and gazed out at his friend, whom was standing still in the middle of the cluttered living room.

"Sherlock." John sighed in hesitation, "What aren't you telling me?" John wiped a hand over his forehead and squeezed his eyes tightly together, utterly exhausted with so much babysitting and over thinking.

Sherlock cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Oliver and I were close in the case. Really close. Too close for comfort." Sherlock stated, "King was a crime boss, a criminal known across the country. He was young and powerful. Unafraid to take a life, and that put him on top." Sherlock swallowed, paused for John's reaction, which was, of course, a look of intrigue, and then continued on, "He was ruling the crime world when Oliver and I stumbled upon him as a suspect." Sherlock then stood straighter, beginning to put the puzzle together himself as he said it aloud. "He wanted to keep us quiet. He knew, somehow he knew, that we were on to him. So he killed Oliver. But for his own mere pleasure and pure joy, he let me live. But he couldn't be sure I'd keep my mouth shut, so he faked his death." Sherlock grinned, as he understood the aspects of Walter E. King's presumed extinction.

John raised his chin to his friend, "He got to start over with the law enforcement world, but still keep his reputation." John nodded and then shook his head instead, "Bastard."

Sherlock had zoned out again but instantly turned back to his friend. "Sorry?"

John sighed and threw his hand in the air, chuckling faintly. "Not you."

Sherlock bobbed his head upwards and turned back towards the random area he had been gazing intensely at.

"How did he find us? HOW?" Sherlock exclaimed and stomped off to begin pacing again.

John winced and let out a deep breath, "Sherlock, that's not the point, here. What does he want with you, is a better question." John shrugged and shook his head slowly. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes.

"We would have had him, John." Sherlock breathed and plummeted down into his black, leathery chair. John simply watched him.

"I shouldn't have given him the leads. I shouldn't have told him my deductions." Sherlock growled under his breath, but John heard him clearly. "For once, I should have kept my bloody mouth shut." Sherlock snapped and placed his palms over his eyes in aggravation. John's eyes widened as he observed his frazzled friend. Never would he have thought that Sherlock Holmes would state he needed shut up. The pity glistened over John's eyes and he scooted forward towards Sherlock. "Sherlock, you didn't know what would happen."

Sherlock quickly countered. "But I did know it would be dangerous, John. That it would have consequences, knowing the information presented. But my curiosity got the better of me." Sherlock instantly slammed his fist down on the coffee table, causing John to flinch in shock and surprise.

"Sherlock, calm down." He spoke softly, to ease his anger. "This wasn't your fault. This was _never_ your fault." John stated reassuringly to his friend, reaching forward to gently pat his shoulder. "You were only trying to get a bad guy of the streets. Just like you do now." Sherlock gazed up at his friend and sigh loudly in defeat.

John leaned backwards to sit properly in his chair again, "We are going to figure this out, Sherlock. Lestrade is dealing with locating more information about King's supposed death, and also Oliver's case." John stated slowly to his friend, hoping to comfort his well-deserved rage; storm plaguing him with guilt and devastation.

Sherlock groaned, "That's not very _soothing_." Sherlock spoke with a teasing tone of voice and John quickly chuckled, "He's smarter than you deduce him to be, and he cares about you. He's your friend, after all." John informed his slightly clueless-with-human-emotions flat mate. Sherlock scoffed, "No, you're my friend."

John shook his head with a small laugh, "Whether you like it or not Sherlock Holmes, you have more than one friend." John teased with a comforting smile. Sherlock grunted and laid back to close his eyes, but was instantly jolted awake when his phone chimed noisily. He reached for it and read to himself. John perked upwards trying to sneak a peek at the message.

"Speaking of the detective inspector." Sherlock grinned, jumped up and snatched his coat and scarf from its hanger.

John narrowed his eyes and got to his feet, met with Sherlock's dry response, "They found a body."


	16. False Imposition

**Chello! :3 sorry for the delay, I was busy reading ObsessedFangirl221B's fic she was kind enough to send me. **

**_AND LET ME TELL YOU, I was crying and cringing and dying inside slowly...mostly because I read the whole thing in one night. The excitement and amazingness was too much to bare and now I ran out of story. I have about 6 more pages left though! :) _**

**Thanks to everyone who has followed and favorited this story! Really means a lot considering this is my first fanfic! ****Anyways, on to the story! Please leave a review! There are truly wonderful terms of motivation for me! Anyhoo, _shall we begin?_ (reference to Khan.) :3**

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><p>The air was damp in London. A moist feeling, as though it had recently rained. Not to mention the constant puddles one was every so often splashing their boots down into. The sky was dark, as night had fallen upon the buildings below it, covering them in clouds of shadows.<p>

John stepped silently behind his friend, eyeing him with cautious suspicions. He seemed all right. However, John was sure that inside that funny old head of his, he was definitely not okay. The news was a drastic change in events. In his own past. But somehow he kept on his inhuman state of mind. Sherlock quickened his strides as he hurriedly ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. Lestrade was already walking towards them.

"Glad you could make it, boys." The DI sighed and smiled a somewhat melancholy smile. He looked tired, over-worked and baffled. John nodded and then grimaced faintly. Lestrade took a deep breath and shook his head with a long, exhausted sigh, as Sherlock just went on ahead, eager to scope out the scene.

"She was found a little over an hour ago. We've identified her as-" Sherlock cut the detective inspector off instantly.

"It doesn't matter."

John shifted in his stance at the sharpness in Sherlock's tone of voice. Lestrade groaned under his breath, "What?" Sherlock growled with a shake of his head, as he stayed stopped in his tracks on his way towards the body.

"Her name doesn't matter. It has no impact on the case. As far as I'm concerned, she's called Ophelia." Sherlock snapped and glared at both John and Lestrade. John cringed and huffed loudly, easily spotting the irritation on Greg's face.

Lestrade took a step forwards and stared angrily at the consulting detective. "Well, Sherlock. She did just die, and now we have to break the news to her family. Sorry, we can't all be sociopaths!" Lestrade sneered and shooed Sherlock away, giving him a _just-go-do-your-thing_ look. John sighed and shook his head to Sherlock as Lestrade hobbled away in frustration.

"Sherlock." John breathed, unsteadily.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Not good?"

John huffed, "Bit not good, yeah."

John allowed Sherlock to go off and look at the body, while John went after Lestrade. He was stood speaking to forensics, most likely about details on the case. "Greg!" John called out and jogged over to him, in which he spun around slowly, a dead-beat hand pushing against the skin on his forehead out of pure exhaustion.

"What is it, John?" He asked with a deep sigh. John exhaled irritably. He couldn't believe he was apologizing for Sherlock Holmes. But this time, he really didn't have a good excuse for the superiority complex that clouds his beliefs.

"I told him about Walter King. He's just a little withdrawn, even if he won't admit it." John shrugged with an apologetic smile.

Lestrade nodded, seeming to understand. John felt it wasn't a good time, but he was eager to know.

"Did you find anything else out on the case?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"I mean the King case." John clarified as he Lestrade stared at him carefully.

"Ah, yes. But only minor details."

John raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Before he 'supposedly' died, King was a suspect in a bank robbery." Lestrade informed John with a downward smirk.

"It said in the report that _word on the street_ put Walter E. King at the scene." Lestrade went on but John quickly intruded, "Word on the street?" John questioned suspiciously. "Yeah, I guess witnesses? It wasn't very specific. Just said _anonymous sources_." Lestrade wiggled as he said the words with exaggerated enthusiasm. John nodded and urged him on.

"They said that he was the one who stole the fifty thousand pounds in cash, but apparently there was never any evidence of him every being on the scene. So, in conclusion, police couldn't hold him." Lestrade shrugged as John narrowed his eyes. "Soon after, they found DNA tracing to another fellow by the name of Jeremy Spring. Turns out, he confessed to the theft and was eventually convicted and imprisoned." Lestrade finished with a sigh and John quickly leaned backwards in confusion.

"Interesting." John cleared his throat. Lestrade nodded.

"John!" Sherlock's voice rang over the chaos of flashing sirens and the crinkling of evidence bags. John hurriedly sprinted towards the consulting detective, who stood over the deranged, pale body. John cringed as he reached him. The girl was sprawled out awkwardly, her skin a sickly white, a few gashes lacing her arms with dried-blood, and her autumn colored hair surrounding her fair, somewhat beautiful, appearance. It was a devastating scene.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted to know.

Lestrade was stood next to the two of them, gazing up at Sherlock with just as much intrigue as John.

"There's something in her mouth." Sherlock stated nonchalantly, as Greg and John stared with raised eyebrows.

"Permission to intervene?" Sherlock asked awkwardly and soon John was gazing at his friend in utter confusion.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "Go ahead."

Sherlock nodded with a grunt and knelt down, slapping on some gloves handed to him by forensics.

"Is that your way of apologizing?" Lestrade questioned with narrowed eyes as Sherlock gently poked his fingers through the body's slightly open mouth.

"What?" Sherlock huffed and was now removing his two fingers, revealing a small, white slip of paper. Lestrade shook his head, forgetting the subject, and leaned forward to inspect the detective's findings. John did the same.

"What is it?" John asked with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock swallowed, "Some kind of note." Sherlock unfolded the tainted white paper to reveal a message scribbled in a messy handwriting. John squinted. There was something familiar about the way the words appeared with their slanted, black letters amongst the contrasting paleness of the paper. From the way Sherlock stiffened, John was sure he noticed it too.

"What's it say?" Lestrade interrogated from the side, his eyebrows furrowed as he stood completely still. Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably.

"It's a quote."

John grew far tenser, "A quote?"

Sherlock nodded, "'_Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving_.'" Sherlock breathed the quotation softly and stared elegantly at the crumpled paper caressing his white gloves. He cringed and closed his eyes.

John raised a brow. "Sherlock?"

"Shut up." He snapped and shook his head, obviously eager to think.

John did as told and simply watched his contradicted friend.

Lestrade shifted and stiffened but didn't speak a word.

"Think!" Sherlock exclaimed and growled a loud, frustrated growl at himself.

John flinched at his sudden outburst and took a step forward towards his friend.

He swallowed, "Sherlock, it's late. Why don't you sleep on it?" John was unsure of the response he would get but the realization was dawning on him that if he didn't spring Sherlock from his frazzled thinking, they might be there all night. Sherlock looked up and grimaced slightly. Without a word, he handed Lestrade the evidence, fixed his coat collar, and trudged towards the street and away from the river rocks. John sighed and Lestrade simply winced inwardly.

"Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." Lestrade grunted, entirely serious.

John nodded with a teasing smile, "What, like go after a serial killer in the middle of the night?"

Lestrade shrugged with a small chuckle, "Yeah, something like that."

John laughed and shook his head, turning and falling into a jog to catch up with the silent consulting detective.

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><p><em>Any guesses as to what the quotes from? :3 without using the internet? C: post a review! ;3<em>


	17. Dagger to the Chest

**Hello! Sorry for the wait, but here you are! Another ****chappy! :3 If you like Loki, check out my other fic, _Hidden Within.  
><em>Thank you so much of course to ObsessedFangirl221B. :) You always leave me reviews and they make my day!  
>I'd like to know just how many people are really keeping up with the story so please review!<br>The action is just starting up! Love you all! Good night! C:  
><strong>

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><p>"The writing." Sherlock exhaled when John slid into the cab seat beside him. John stared with narrowed eyes and quickly nodded, "Yeah?"<p>

Sherlock glared at his companion. "You noticed it too. You just don't want to admit it."

John cleared his throat and stared off, out the window, as the cab took motion. "I suppose." John swallowed and then turned back to face his friend.

Sherlock nodded, "Same ink. Same curve of the letters."

John rolled his eyes and gazed at the detective with a sympathetic look.

"I was stupid not to think of it before." Sherlock scolded himself and let out a deep huff of rage. John gulped uneasily and decided to simply leave the sleuth to his deductions. He wasn't took keen on bugging his friend further. The truth behind Walter E. King had already put him in a foul enough mood.

The rest of the ride to Baker Street, John stayed quiet.

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><p>He stepped cautiously down the white corridor, inching his way past the hundreds of brown, wooden doors.<p>

"It's not a coincidence, brother mine." The deep, baritone voice snapped from behind him. He raised his head to glance over his shoulder.

"You know what we say about coincidences." Mycroft smirked and reached Sherlock's position with quiet footsteps.

"The universe is rarely so lazy." Sherlock reiterated, mockingly.

"Precisely, brother." Mycroft smiled and began to lead the way down the hall, keeping his gaze forward.

"_Think_." The feminine voice beckoned from his right, and he quickly turned, displeased to find no one standing there. But he knew the voice.  
>"<em>It's the new sexy<em>." It echoed in a melodious tone, causing him to grin inwardly.

Sherlock grunted and caught up with his brother in long strides.

"He's the serial killer." Sherlock mumbled to himself, but his brother heard and turned around to face him, standing irritably straight.

"Now we are getting somewhere, _Sherlock_." Mycroft chuckled and raised his chin to stare his brother down. The consulting detective takes a deep breath and looks into the hypnotizing white walls, his gaze completely focused on the topic at hand.

"He knew the case would draw my attention, as is my M.O." Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. "But why?" He turns to his brother, "Why allow me to target him? Knowing very well I would eventually solve the case?"

"You haven't solved it yet, brother mine." Mycroft chuckled and tapped his umbrella onto the ground several times.

_Sherlock?_

It took him a moment to register the voice, but as soon as he did, he shook it away, forbidding it to enter his insane mind, in an act of protection.

_Sherlock!_

The voice pushed, with an uneasy tone, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft in an act of confusion. His brother smiled, "I believe your doctor is calling."

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><p>Sherlock's eyes flew open to stare at John, sitting before him with narrowed features. "God dammit, John!" Sherlock exclaimed and glared at the short, blonde man sitting in his red armchair. John just blinked.<p>

"What!" Sherlock yelled out, annoyed by his silence.

John cleared his throat and shifted in his position, "You were freaking me out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I freak everybody out! Why did you interrupt me?"

He scowled at his friend with questioning eyes. John pointed. Sherlock followed the unsteady finger to the palm of his hand. It was shaking vigorously, as it had the night he saw the presumed "hound". Sherlock grabbed hold in embarrassment and grunted loudly, eager to disrupt the silence, while hiding his hand at the same time.

"Sherlock." John stated in his concerned _doctor_ voice. The consulting detective simply stared downwards, attempting to get back to his thinking again.

"It's getting to you." John groaned, stating words of truth, even Sherlock couldn't deny. He swallowed instead of answering, keeping his eyes hidden. John leaned forward, towards his best friend, worrying plaguing his expression.

"Sherlock. Talk to me. What did you figure out?" John poked for more information, hesitant at first but eager to understand his friend's discomfort.

Sherlock thought for a moment of the quote on the slip of paper.  
><em>Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.<br>_He shook his head suddenly, and John swallowed the knot beginning to form.

"What is it?" John asked, knowingly gazing at his frazzled friend. Sherlock simply stared off at something across the room. John remained patient, watching carefully as Sherlock stayed completely still in his seat, his nerves slowly unhinging themselves.

"Sherlock, I swear to god, if you don't answer me, I'm calling your brother." John threatened, worried for his quiet companion.

Sherlock jolted awake and glared at his flat mate.  
>"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock replied hoarsely, his voice quivering slightly as he doubted himself in the statement.<p>

John raised an eyebrow, "Oh, I would."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, unwilling to supply John with the truth, as he hadn't fully gained it himself. "I know what the quote is from."

John perked upwards in his armchair, "Great!"  
>He exclaimed and stared at Sherlock with a blissful smile, but it quickly faded when he saw him narrow his eyes at the floor.<p>

"Sherlock." John groaned instantly, dropping his shoulders from his tense position.  
>"How long have you known?" He asked, rubbing a hand over his forehead in exhaustion.<p>

Sherlock hesitated but soon exhaled an answer, "Since I got into the cab."

John sighed and shook his head. He knew Sherlock liked to keep things hidden away until last minute, but something was wrong with this picture.

"Sherlock, some poor bloke's life is on the line." John informed his friend with a pleading groan of frustration.

Sherlock shrugged, "Yes, I acknowledged that."

John stared at his friend, his mouth gaping open. He hadn't acted this way since…well, since Moriarty.  
>"Do you <em>want<em> someone else to die?" John questioned with raised eyebrows of concern for his friend's well being.

Sherlock hesitated and then softly grunted, "Othello."

John tilted his head and leaned closer into the conversation, "What?"

"I believe the next victim will be a male. He will be forced to kill his wife, and then to kill himself." Sherlock explained with his eyes squeezed shut.

John's eye widened, "How-" He cut himself off and shrugged effortlessly.

"Othello discovers that his wife, Desdemona, whom he has just murdered, is not guilty of adultery, so he drives a dagger into his chest and falls dead beside her body." Sherlock breathed rather quickly, and all at once.

John swallowed and nodded slowly, "Alright. I'll phone Lestrade." He got up from his red chair, and hurriedly reached for the phone. Sherlock, however, didn't budge. He simply sat, listening to John's words echo in the silent halls of the flat.

_His mind was racing_. Racing at thousands of miles an hour, and he couldn't stop it. Each time it's pace in racing quickened, his mind asked another rhetorical question, and each time he managed to answer it, it slowed a little. But at the moment, he didn't have the answers. The chime of his own phone caused him to jump a little, and finally move from his stiff position. He pulled it from his coat pocket and raised it up, closer to his squinting, tired eyes.

**Bryanston Square. Come alone, Mr. Holmes. Don't forget, I can control whether you live or die. Same goes for your doctor friend. -WEK**

Sherlock swallowed, losing his breath for a moment, before taking in a big one to ease his nerves.  
><em>Not again. How many times would he have to go through this?<em>

**Your time is ticking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And my patience is wearing thin. -WEK**

Sherlock listened to John's eager voice emanating from the other room. He winced, and quickly went into the kitchen, grabbing hold of a small, sheet of paper and a pen, and quickly began to write something in small black ink. With a sigh, he took it into his fingers, folded it into a tight square, and hurriedly swayed over to his desk. He pulled open the draw that held miscellaneous items from old cases, and carefully took out the pink phone. With narrowed eyes, he pulled off the case protecting it, and slipped the paper inside, so that it hid thoroughly behind.  
>He smiled a small smirk. The only thing that his plan relied on now was one question.<br>_Was John clever enough to figure out his clues?_


	18. Quite the Asset

**Sorry for the wait! Had quite the week and weekend! I would really like reviews :3 they please me and motivate my sorry behind. :) haha, I would also like to know how many people are really keeping up with this, because if it is still rather popular, I will try my best to get the chapters out sooner. Okay! :3 thank you for the support ****everyone! Enjoy, or don't enjoy, your choice! :] ...Pengwengs. **

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><p>The cab ride was long. Arduous. Rather uncomfortable. Sherlock's mind simply focused on the plan he had orchestrated ahead of time.<br>John, being a _conductor of light_, made it easy for Sherlock to focus on more pressing things while the doctor shared his concerns and worries with the DI.

When the London cab pulled up to Bryanston Square, Sherlock handed the cabbie the cash, and quickly slid off the seat and into the cool air of late night. He shut his eyes for a moment, hoping John would keep composed when he found out he was gone, that he would find his clues, and heed his warnings. This ordeal would not end well for the detective, but if he made the right decisions, it would all be okay for John Watson. He could go back to married life; prepare himself for incoming parenthood.

He sighed and quickly swayed off the empty sidewalk and into the grass of the Bryanston park. He sauntered under the branches of oak trees, and maneuvered around the small flower patches along the small grass path. He simply continued to walk on, unsure of where he was headed until he heard the deep, baritone voice call out from the darkness of crowded trees.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The consulting detective turned to see the older, black-haired man, creeping out from the safety of the shadows. Sherlock flinched but stood straight.

"Walter E. King." Sherlock exhaled in disgust and turned fully to face the man dead on. "Nice to see you again." He snapped sarcastically, and then noticed the man beside his old enemy. The same man who had shot him a day and a half ago. _Mr. Mathews was his name, wasn't it?_ He rolled his eyes, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, as he glared at the two men.

"Honestly? You couldn't leave your busboy at home for once?" He mocked with an intricate gaze.

Walter laughed and shook his head. "He's here for my own protection."  
>He smirked and then posed, "I am sure you brought it, no?" The dark man asked with a rather questioning, yet malicious stare.<p>

Sherlock reached into his coat, dragging out the small handgun that had been snuggly wrapped in the package he received, and then observed as Mr. Mathews, the young rather obnoxious appearing man, stiffened in his position.

"Very good, Sherlock." Walter snickered with a nod of approval. "You'll be needing that." He added and Sherlock cocked his head mockingly, "Oh, will I?"

Mr. King chuckled and huffed in irritation, "Indeed, you will. I have several jobs I require your assistance on."

Sherlock sighed, as if bored with the information. "I am aware."

King raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"

Sherlock nodded, "_I am aware_ you wish to use my skills to acquire fortune and growth in position and reputation."

It wasn't so difficult. Figuring out the note was written by a certain _WEK_ was easy because of the hand writing, and then the fact that the odd note read, _Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving, _led him to more answers_. _Out of all the many aspiring quotes emanating from the story of Othello, this man chooses one about "reputation". From the information Sherlock received on King's previous suspicions in a robbery, after hacking Scotland Yard, he further deduced that this man intended on using others for his own glory.

In summary, he had no talent whatsoever. He simply made it look that way.  
>Walter E. King had other people commit the crime, and then made sure, <em>with word on the street<em>, that he was known for it.  
>It boosted his ego, reputation, and fortune.<br>He was the definition of a fraud.  
>Except in the fact that he wasn't afraid of killing the innocent.<p>

Walter E. King approached Sherlock slowly, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "You will be quite the asset, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Quite the asset indeed."

* * *

><p>Quite a while had flew by before John noticed Sherlock was gone.<br>He figured he had vanished to his bedroom as usual, to lie in bed and stare blankly at the ceiling, or visit his mind palace with his face in a pillow.

After his phone call with Lestrade, he'd gone to sit in the living room; rather taken back that Sherlock wasn't in his black, leather chair, hands in prayer form. He shrugged and sighed a rather larger sigh, before picking up the book he had initially intended on reading.  
>It was only when he called out a good night to Sherlock, that he noticed something wasn't right.<p>

"Sherlock?" He questioned, quite loudly, staring across the flat, directly at Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He swallowed and inched closer to it, eyes narrowed as he called out his name again. No answer. He finally worked up the nerve to gently push the door a crack open, peering inside.

No one. Empty. _Dark and empty._

He immediately jogged to the exit of the flat, forcing the door open with a bang, as it his the wall behind and dashing towards Ms. Hudson's. She had returned from her sister's yesterday, some time at noon, and hadn't a clue about all that had happened, but he didn't have time to explain now.  
>He knocked continuously until a tired old lady answered.<p>

"John?" She questioned through squinted eyes.

John exhaled deeply, "Ms. Hudson, did you see Sherlock leave? Hear him leave? Anything?" He interrogated, instantly devastated when she shook her head no.

"Alright, thank you." He whirled down the stairs, towards the front entrance that led to the outdoor streets of London, hearing a small mumble behind him, "Look at him, dashing about," and then the close of a door.

Once the cool air hit him, he finally began to panic. _Really_ panic. It's not like this was the first time Sherlock's done something incredibly stupid, but his earlier conversation with Lestrade, at the crime scene, continued to echo in his head.

_"__Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." _

_"__What, like go after a serial killer in the middle of the night?" _

_"__Yeah, something like that." _

John winced and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, nearly causing it to crash onto the ground. He shook his head, surprised to find that he was calling Mycroft's number before anyone else. He cringed as he raised the device to his ear.

"Dr. Watson." The deep voice growled dryly.

John sighed and nodded, "Yes, is Sherlock with you?"

The voice came back rather quickly now, "No, why?"

John groaned and let out a deep irritated breath. "Because he's gone and he didn't tell me where he went."

The line was silent for a moment before Mycroft responded. "I'm sure it's nothing, doctor. I have no doubt he'll be back on Baker Street by morning, terrifying the neighbors with his shrieking violin, and problematical behavior."

John shook his head at the words. "No, this case is different Mycroft. It's _personal_."

Mycroft was quiet, and John wasn't sure what to say. "Inform Scotland Yard, Dr. Watson. I'll be over shortly."

The doctor fell at a loss for words.

"I want to know everything about this _case_, do you understand me?"

John swallowed and quickly replied, "Yes, of course."

"Good."

The line went dead.


	19. The Vase of Pink Tulips

**Yay! A chapter! Yes, I know. It's been a while, BUT I was lacking motivation and now I am well fueled up on it. So there you go!**  
><strong>Please leave a review, I need to know how many people are enjoying this story, otherwise I may not continue posting it and simply move on...<strong>  
><strong>I am really proud of this story, however, so hopefully it doesn't come to that...lemme know in a review please! -<em>JB<em>**

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><p>"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, a scowl present on his pale features, stepping from the cab, still threatened with a gun to his back, as Mr. Mathews followed behind him. They'd been so <em>ordinary<em> as to place a black bag over his head, obscuring his vision of all road signs. During the day, he might have been able to guess where they were, debating the shadows of buildings that went by or the noises of civilian life. But at night, it was much more difficult, to Sherlock's own aggravation.

Walter King glanced over his shoulder at the consulting detective, his eyes darkened as they approached the door of a suburb cottage, somewhere in the countryside. "It doesn't matter, Mr. Holmes." He shrugged, irritating the curly-haired man even more.

King stopped at the foot of the door and gestured to it, extending his palm in its direction.  
>"Mr. Mathews, if you would be so kind?" He asked and the small man nodded, "Sure, boss."<p>

With the gun still dangling from his hand, and the other, stolen from Sherlock for safety precautions, tucked in his back pocket, Mr. Mathews kicked down the wooden door, causing a loud bang to emanate from its hinges as they were ripped from the hard surface. Sherlock flinched at the sudden aggression and was instantly ushered forward.

"In you go, Mister 'olmes." Mathews grinned wickedly, and shoved him forward, springing a smile over King's features. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped inside the small, cozy house. As soon as they'd all squeezed inside, they found themselves standing in a kitchen, oak wood floor beneath their feet, and quite antique furniture and décor surrounding them.

Adrenaline spiked upwards inside Sherlock's mind and body when a small voice sounded from a rack of stairs, located in the corner of the house.

"Oi, who are you then?" The man was stomping toward the three criminals, as they were breaking and entering, holding a baseball bat ready in his hands. He was still in his pajamas, made of silk, obviously, and utterly expensive. Sherlock eyed him closer. _Family-orientated, brave, in a rather comfortable relationship, successful lawyer._

King glanced over at Sherlock, smiling devilishly. "Stop deducing, Mr. Holmes. It won't matter."  
>Walter flicked his head in the man's direction, and Mr. Mathews immediately raised the gun. The man cowered to the floor, hands raised in surrender as he dropped the bat to the floor with a loud thump. Sherlock held his breath, uncomfortable with the situation, and dreading what was to come next.<p>

King chuckled darkly and approached the innocent being. "Hello, sir." He greeted with a wide, toothy grin.

The other man was shaking in fear, his eyebrows furrowed and his bottom lip quivering childishly.

"I hope you don't mind, but you are the next example." He winked at Sherlock, glaring over his shoulder. He stepped away and let Mr. Mathews take control of the situation.

"On your feet." The, as Sherlock called him, busboy snapped and shoved the man with the nose of the gun. They forced him upstairs, just as they forced Sherlock to follow respectively. They climbed the steps, Mathews and King with ease, while the captive shuddered in fear and anguish, and Sherlock in rage and uncertainty, which he's never been too fond of. King led them all to another room, kicking open the door to reveal a woman, sat upwards in her bed, gazing at the four of them with wide-eyes.

"Nick, what's-" She cut herself off, as Mathews knocked the innocent man to the floor, violently.

King encircled him, while Sherlock simply stood back, hidden in the shadows of the darkened room, which was encased with more antique furniture, a vase of pink tulips on top of a small desk, and a large wardrobe taking up almost a quarter of the area.

"Time for you to see how things work around here, Holmes." Walter winked at the detective, and then peered over at the small woman, cowering beneath the comfort their silky, satin bed sheets.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes her way, after scowling at King, and watched, as she grew tearful in their company. He didn't pay attention to their appearances; only the facts. _Librarian, quite in love with her partner though a compulsive cheat, alcoholic father, lives with stepmother._  
>Sherlock furrowed his brows and went back to observing Mr. Mathews and the victim.<p>

"As you know, Mr. Holmes," King began, instantly catching Sherlock's focus and full attention, "we never fulfilled our next step in the Shakespeare case."  
>He snickered, shaking his head, and leaning down to gaze the innocent man, who was leaning onto his knees, square in the eyes.<br>"Shakespeare was a remarkable man, wasn't he?"

The victim nodded vigorously, fear glistening over his eyes, disguised as held back tears.

From his squatted position, Walter King shrugged his face together, as if pondering a complex thought. "It was Othello, was it not?" He grinned widely and glared over at Sherlock, who stood unnaturally still. Sherlock faintly nodded, unable to keep back the agreement, causing his entire body to roll over in an unwanted shudder. He cursed inwardly at himself. _Interesting, yes? Emotions._

King unexpectedly reached over to Mathews, taking the pistol he held, and then dropping it down to the victim hunched over on the floor.  
>Mr. Mathews, soon after, removed the second gun from his back pocket and pointed it at the mess-of-a-man's head.<p>

"Pick it up." King ordered the victim, sternly. He nodded, though with his eyes widened in confusion and disbelief.  
>The woman flinched in her position on the bed, hands clenching tightly to the pillow in her lap. Sherlock stiffened in his stance, while Mr. Mathews readied his own weapon as the innocent man grasped onto the one before him.<p>

Walter E. King then grinned, and gestured, with a flicker of his head, towards the woman. "Shoot her."

The victim's eyes grew instantly wider as he glanced from the criminal standing above him, to the woman sitting on his bed. "No!" The man yelled in outrage.

King rolled his eyes and groaned, his bottom lip falling into a pout. "Please, for me?" He asked pleadingly, causing Sherlock to scowl in disgust.

The man shook his head, unwilling to play this bad man's game, much to Sherlock's admiration. "No! I would never!"

King huffed in irritation and shrugged his shoulders unenthusiastically, "Damn, this could have been a lot more exciting."  
>He lunged forward, ripping the pistol away from the innocent man, and pointing it steadily at the woman.<p>

In an instant, without even giving it a second thought, Walter pulled the trigger.

The woman fell backwards, almost immediately soaking the white sheets in crimson.

"Abigail!" The victim cried out, crawling forward to reach the murdered woman, only to be killed himself, by Mr. Mathews, firing the gun directly at his head, on order of Walter King.

Sherlock was frozen still, his mind unable to wrap itself fully around the events that had just taken place. He visibly swallowed, and shook his head, as if to wake himself up from this nightmare. _Control, control, contro_l; he told himself over and over, remembering he had to keep it together. This was reality.  
>John's words echoed in his head, <em>"You are not a puzzle-solver – you never have been. You're a drama queen."<br>_Sherlock winced and nodded, reminding himself not to overreact. _Simply take it_.  
>It would be a whole lot safer that way, mildly for him and wholly for John Watson.<p>

He peered over at King who was now giving new orders to his 'busboy'.

"Wipe everything down. Clean and pristine." Walter teased and Mr. Mathews bobbed his head up and down in confirmation, before setting out to do as his boss told. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a quick glance downwards at both victims. They were each encircled in ruby red blood now, both with their eyes open, a look of shock imprinted onto their features. Sherlock cringed as he observed Mr. Mathews. The man took hold of the same pistol used to shoot the woman, removed the ammo, wiped it off and then tucked it safely under the male victim's hand.

"Othello." The deep voice caught Sherlock off guard. King had a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, smiling wickedly at the crime scene below their eyes.

"Killed his wife, and then killed himself. Morbid, huh?" He chuckled, patted Sherlock's back and then snapped for Mr. Mathews to follow him as he turned to exit the room.

Sherlock stayed put, watching the blood continue to pour, as Walter King called out, "Come along, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock glanced once more around the room. _The vase of pink tulips_. Sherlock hurriedly scurried over to the glass containment, and snatched out a flower. _Perfectly pink._ Sherlock found himself smiling, then instantly rubbed his fingers along its stem, making sure his imprint was long lasting. He then swayed over to the dead man, and gently placed the flower onto his back. The pink stood out brightly with his dark t-shirt, appealing to Sherlock greatly.

John would notice it. He _had_ to notice it. For both their sakes.

He let out a deep sigh, hope intertwining with his every thought, and then raced out the door, after the impatient psychopath.

* * *

><p>"I assume you've informed Scotland Yard, and they are doing all they can to get a hold of the situation?" Mycroft questioned with raised eyebrows, questioning the frazzled doctor sat completely still in his chair. He nodded to 'the British Government' and adjusted his position in the red armchair he'd claimed as his own, eyes vibrating around the room as Sherlock had always done, in search of clues.<p>

"Good." Mycroft responded blankly, causing John to jolt forwards in his seat, his leg shaking nervously.

"I've texted him over twenty times. Called him even more than that. What if he's-" John shook his head as Mycroft leaned towards him in an act to comfort the doctor, the best 'a Holmes' could.

"John, we both know that hasn't happened. Not _yet_ anyway."

John glared up at the man sitting before him, one hand on John's shoulder, the other on the handle of his teacup. "That is very comforting, thank you Mycroft." John scowled and shook his head in aggravation.

Mycroft sighed and leaned backward in Sherlock's leather chair. "Look, John. We need to be reasonable here."

John nodded, agreeing with the statement. He had to keep it together.

"You've told me about this Walter character. I'm assuming we both agree he is most likely the suspect behind this?" Mycroft questioned, his voice monotonous as he gazed sharply at John. John simply nodded again.

"And this Shakespeare case. You believe he is behind its intelligence?"

John glared at the man before him. "Intelligence? It's cold blooded murder, Mycroft."

Mycroft cleared his throat, "Yes. But not to my brother, Dr. Watson."

John cringed, understanding the older man's point. "Right."

"Sherlock would have found it rather fascinating and quite complex; this man and his serial killings. So much so that as soon as he had the solution, he ran off to find him."

John narrowed his eyes and sighed deeply, "You think he left willingly?"

Mycroft shrugged, "Either that, or he was threatened. This wasn't a kidnapping, Doctor."

John nodded, trusting the man's wisdom to divulge a possible explanation. Somehow, John wasn't sure Sherlock would simply go after a murderer unprepared. In the past maybe, but after he had returned from the 'dead', he'd changed. He was more cautious, more careful. Not as ill prepared as he had previously been. Of both Mycroft's suggestions, leaving willingly versus being threatened, John thought the latter of the two.

"I believe it is quite obvious; what this man intends to use my brother for."

John perked upwards in his seat, staring wide-eyed at Mycroft Holmes. "Use him?" John questioned with raised eyebrows of suspicion.

"Indeed." Mycroft sighed uncomfortably, adjusting his sitting position before explaining. "The first note clearly pointed out the obvious, _ready to join me, Mr. Holmes. _This implies that he wished for Sherlock's assistance. But he wouldn't just require Sherlock's help, would he? If he was acting forceful, if as you say, _he has a thirst for control_, then he needed Sherlock for his own advantage, his own gain. Thus, he simply wished to use him."

John nodded as the man before him went on.

"After you explained the last addition of the case to me, _Othello_, I thought about the quote, examining it a little more closely. He speaks of reputation. Bit ambitious, don't you think? Compare it to his last 'conviction', barely so, you can see that the same notion was implied here."

John raised his chin in understanding.

"You see, Dr. Watson? This is man is a control freak and a fraud, who now plans to use Sherlock as his guinea pig." Mycroft sighed and placed two fingers on the left side of his temple.

John visibly swallowed, and clenched his fists together, a habit that seemed to ease his nerves, only faintly.

"I believe we are going to be quite busy the next few days, John."

John peered up at Mycroft, who leaned forward to take a sip of his tea; ever so elegantly it was almost irritating. As if he was expecting it, Mycroft stayed completely still when John's phone chimed irritably. John answered almost instantly.

"Hello?" He breathed, attempting to calm his erratic nerves and heartbeat.

"Yeah, John." Lestrade's voice sounded somewhat haunted by whatever information he had called to share.

John swallowed, voice quivering as he replied, "What is it?"

Lestrade sighed, "Othello."

John raised his chin and nodded, "Yes?"

He could almost sense Lestrade's hesitation on the end of the line.

"You better get down here John."

John's breath caught and he cringed, using his free hand to clasp the bridge of his nose. "Text me the details." John remarked and hung up.

Mycroft was peering down at John with raised eyebrows, full of suspicion.

John got to his feet just as his phone binged with the delivery of what he'd asked for.

**Aybrook Street.  
><strong>**Ashland Place, 26.  
><strong>**You shouldn't get lost.  
><strong>**I'm sure you'll see the flashing lights.**

John cringed and shook his head, uttering a response to Mycroft's concern and curiosity. "It's the case." John's breathing came out faulty as he spoke.

"I'm headed to Lestrade." John flew out the door of the flat, jogging down the stairs, and past a worried Ms. Hudson. Before he knew it, Mycroft was following.

"Where are you boys off to? And where's Sherlock?" She questioned, shaking her head at their anxiousness to get moving.

Mycroft sighed and smiled kindly to Ms. Hudson, a scowl lurking in his tone of voice. "Nothing to worry about, Ms. Hudson. I'm sure John will explain later."

He raced after the sprinting doctor, who was already out, breathing in the London air, as he called for a cab.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "No need, Dr. Watson." John turned to face his best friend's brother.

"Sorry?" He murmured, unable to speak loudly.

"Why pay cab fare when you can simply accompany me?" He asked with a genuine smile, just as a long, sleek black car pulled up along the curb of Baker Street. John beamed as best he could and nodded, jogging over to the older Holmes' car.


	20. Why Pink?

**Yay! Another chapter! Please review guys! They motivate me in so many ways! **  
><strong>I actually am so happy with the way this is going! :3<strong>

_**ALSO: thought: I was thinking about writing a Sherlock AU, about Sherlock being a machine. It would take place in the future and include all the Sherlock characters. Sherlock wouldn't actually be a MACHINE but something along those lines...please shoot me your thoughts! It could be a fun idea. **_

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><p>Suddenly everything made sense; for one, the random memory referring Sherlock back to the past, and attempting to help him understand,<p>

_Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them._

But of course, he'd figured that all out hours ago.  
>It was just that witnessing a man flat out shoot two innocent people before his eyes was slightly sinister, and it sparked the realization in his mind, that this was the plan of a dark, putrid evil. To use the benefits of Sherlock's intelligence to his own advantage. Turn him into a criminal.<p>

Honestly, he wasn't far from it.

He had already shot a man himself. Of course, that man wasn't innocent, and he didn't shoot him to simply prove a point.  
>He'd feared things like this before, becoming a criminal; then there were times when he simply didn't, times where he went out on a whim and craved a little guilt and illegal activity. The drugs had helped with that. But this? This was different.<p>

He was a pawn. He wasn't his own man. He was merely a puppet.  
>As much as he hated to admit it, he was without a plan.<br>Sure, he had left clues for John along the way  
>But they were small, and not very specific.<p>

His only hope, one that he was still clinging onto, was that John was well versed in the stories of Shakespeare.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade." John called out as he ducked under the yellow, caution tape. The gray-haired inspector was swaying up to him, his self-confidence appearing to be low, and his face wrinkled with the imminent threat of worry.<p>

"John." The DI breathed softly, as John brushed past him, hurriedly striding into the chaos of an outdoor bustle. Forensics dashed to and fro wildly, medics chasing other medics by order, as John continued to speed walk through them, leaving Lestrade behind, eager to catch up.

"John, slow down!" Greg snapped with a huff, finally reaching the same speed as John's heavy stride. John's eyes gazed out at the scene, anxious to enter the crime scene, a door where more teams of officers were exiting.

That's when the white sheet, draped over an utterly, and eerily still body, caused him stand frozen in his steps.  
>He swallowed, barely able to breathe by the size of the knot in his throat.<br>A hand on his shoulder caused him to spring from his clouded emotions, only to stare unsteadily out at Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The DI smiled comfortingly and shook his head, allowing John to finally let out a deep breath of relief. Greg bobbed his head up and down and gestured toward the door of the small cottage before them. John nodded and swayed forward, exhaling and inhaling thoroughly, in an attempt to get his beating heart back to normal again. They strode inside, as John gazed out at the antique furniture. Old clocks, sofas, expensive décor. It was quite fascinating and a rather beautiful set of decorations. Lestrade led him up a flight of stairs, careful not to place his hands on the handrails, in case they still needed to dust for prints, even though he was quite sure they had already thought to do that. On their way up, Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at the doctor.

"We left the male victim where he was." He stated with a sigh, "There was something…interesting."

The pause caused John head to jolt upwards, intrigued by the DI's words. "I'm guessing this is…"  
>John swallowed and shook his head, straying from sounding too much like Sherlock Holmes, "Othello?"<p>

Lestrade nodded just as he pushed open a frail, old wooden door.  
>The scene wasn't overly gruesome. An older man, perhaps mid-thirties, was sprawled out onto the floor, in dark sleepwear, with a rather clean bullet hole in the back of his head. John froze and narrowed his eyes.<p>

"It's made to look like a suicide. No other prints on the gun but his own. Wife dead. Two bullets missing from the pistol."  
>Greg shrugged and peered over at a suspicious John Watson. "But we know it wasn't."<p>

The DI nodded at John's words, and pointed to the strange, and rather random object located on the victim's back. "Thanks to someone thinking ahead." Lestrade said it with a hint in his tone of voice. John cleared his throat, hope suffocating his insides, as he knelt down to get a closer look.

_A pink tulip. Why a pink tulip?_

"Why a pink tulip?" Lestrade asked, and John shook his head at the irony of his thoughts.  
>John gazed down at it, struggling to think the way his best friend would. "Have you dusted it for prints?"<p>

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. I haven't let anyone know though. Wanted to keep it on the down low."

John swallowed, "Because," He began, already knowing the answer he was going to receive. "Because they belong to Sherlock." Lestrade finished with a sigh.

John shut his eyes, exhausted by concern, and reached forward to take hold of the small blossom with two fingers.

"It's the only thing in here that has any prints at all. The entire scene has been wiped down."  
>Lestrade continued, his voice straining as he laid out the information. "Now, how does that look, John?"<p>

John didn't answer.

"Not a trace of any one else, except Sherlock. Luck certainly isn't working with us."

John nodded at the honest words, and squinted his eyes at the flower, an idea finally popping into his puzzled mind. "Why pink, Lestrade?"

Greg shrugged and shook his head, "Maybe it was all he had."

John got to his feet, eyes lighting up as he thought on. "No, there are other things in this house, even other flowers, different colors."  
>John reiterated the question, "<em>Why<em> pink?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, and shrugged again. John smiled, "I think it's a symbol."

Lestrade tilted his head to the side, "A symbol?" He paused, "A symbol for what?"

John put the flower back down and then stood up straight in his stance. "A Study in Pink."  
>John dashed from the room, hurriedly jogging down the stairs, taking two at a time.<p>

Lestrade followed, eyes wide with confusion and, at the same time, total understanding. "Why would he reference that?"

John shook his head, "I don't know, but I think our answer is back at the flat."

Lestrade nodded as they exited the house, immediately heading for his patrol car. He unlocked it with a click, pulled open the door, and slid inside.  
>"Get in." He ordered, and John did as told.<p>

* * *

><p>"So what now?" Lestrade questioned as John hiked up the stairs to his flat, 221B.<p>

"Time to find out." John smirked and rammed his keys into the lock, soon snapping the door open with a gentle, yet excited, kick.  
>"You check the blog." John commanded, "We check everything that had to do with that case."<p>

Lestrade nodded and sat down at the table, flipping open the small laptop.

John made his way to Sherlock's desk, which sat fairly close to his leather chair, and went straight for the small drawer.  
>He'd seen Sherlock tuck things inside, when he thought no one was looking.<br>John knew Sherlock resented sentiment, but he also knew the man had buckets of it.  
>He found exactly what he'd been looking for.<br>The pink phone, the pink lady's phone.

_Pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?_

_Um__…__no. _

_Why not? I thought you'd be__…__flattered. _

_Flattered? "Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."_

_Now hang on minute, I didn't mean that in a—_

_Oh! You meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a nice way._

He smiled at the memory, and quickly observed the object, Sherlock's voice constantly brewing inside his mind.  
><em>As ever you see but do not observe. <em>

John finally noticed a slight fault in the fixture of the case. It wasn't completely fixed to the rim of the phone, off by a mere centimeter, but certainly _off_.  
>He dragged the pink protective fold from the item, leaving the phone bare and causing a note to drop into his palm.<br>His eyes lit up as they caught sight of the small, folded piece of paper.  
>He grinned and called for Lestrade, who came running in less than a second.<br>While the DI watched, John carefully flattened out the message, revealing the small hand written words.  
>Sherlock's handwriting.<p>

**Bryanston Square. WEK.  
><strong>**-SH**

John's face fell as he read the three initials. So then, it was definitely him. Sherlock was confirming it. And giving them a clue as to where he had gone.

Lestrade peeked over John's shoulder. "Bryanston Square?" He paused, "The Park?"

John nodded, and hurriedly reached for his jacket, swaying across the room, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like a sedative.  
>He glanced over at the DI, "You coming, or not?"<p>

Lestrade smirked and shrugged, following John out the door. "Of course."

* * *

><p>Sherlock spat out to the floor as they dragged the black bag off of his head.<br>His hands were now tied thoroughly behind his back, which confused him, as he was unarmed and most definitely not capable of pulling anything 'eccentric'.

"Here we are, Mr. Holmes." Walter grinned darkly, and led the two men, Sherlock and Mr. Mathews, towards a giant, ugly, and rather secluded warehouse. He approached two large doors, fixed with a small pass code, where King immediately started tapping numbers. Sherlock peered at each button he pressed; memorizing the list of digits, should he ever need them, and receiving a cold, crude look from the criminal's 'busboy'. Sherlock only smirked and winked his way.

Mr. Mathews turned to Walter with a rather disgusted expression, "Sir. Permission to punch the captive." Mr. Mathews asked, as more of a statement then a question. Walter glanced over at the detective, who simply shrugged with raised eyebrows and a willing smile of mockery.

King chuckled and shook his head, "Later, Mr. Mathews. Later."

Sherlock Holmes was shoved inside by the 'busboy', causing him to cautiously follow Walter's footsteps into the dark warehouse. He gazed around at his surroundings. The rooftop was high, enormous in size, and bearing random building material, most likely unneeded, and simply discarded by construction sight owners who'd finished their jobs weeks ago. A long desk-like table was sat lonely in the middle of the large area, bearing a simply light, three laptops and scattered sheets of paper.  
>Beside it, standing ready, and armed with a rather large machine gun, was a dark-skinned man, glaring at the consulting detective with narrowed eyes.<p>

"Welcome back, sir." His voice was deep, and baritone, and in a way, rather unsettling.

Walter nodded to him in confirmation and took hold of Sherlock's forearm, leading him towards a chair, tucked under the shadows of the table. He shoved him into it, and took a seat himself, grabbing hold of a few sheets of paper and stacking them upwards so that they formed a nice, neat pile.

"Ready to get started Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What Shakespeare plot could you possibly need me for?"

King glanced over at the other men in the room, who began to laugh rather steadily, amused by Sherlock's statement.  
>He narrowed his eyes and scowled irritably.<p>

Walter scoffed, "Sherlock, the Shakespeare plots were simply to acquire your attention."

Sherlock stiffened in his position of the seat, his wrists chaffing against the metallic vibe of the handcuffs.

"I have something far more intricate planned."

_Shit._ Sherlock shut his eyes.  
>His clues, his thoughts, everything consuming his mind; <em>wrong.<br>__He hoped Lestrade was a better DI than he thought.  
><em>_And he hoped John would save him._


	21. Old Questions

**Few. Sorry for the weight guys! But happy happy new year! 2015! WOW! (reminds me of Back to the Future) ;) **  
><strong>Hope you enjoy and please please leave a review!<strong>

* * *

><p>John stared wide-eyed at the note.<br>Really? This was all he could share?  
>The Great bloody Sherlock Holmes, and this is all that's written?<p>

**Shakespeare. –SH**

John figured it meant Walter E. King was still sticking the Shakespeare theme, but what clue had they been given at the last crime scene?  
>There was nothing, nothing indicating a resemblance to what he was planning next.<br>John felt utterly helpless and incredibly stupid. Was this how Sherlock saw him? Clueless, and oblivious, to the most prominent details?

No, John was sure of himself. He had seen nothing, acquired no such knowledge, to reassure the fact that WEK was planning to hold a constant MO to the English playwright. So…Sherlock Holmes was wrong? No. He couldn't be.

Though, he'd been wrong before. Charles Augustus Magnusson; he'd burned him into the ground, caused Sherlock to question himself.  
>And in the end, Sherlock shot him in the head. He deserved it, but that also told John something quite unsettling.<p>

If Sherlock is wrong, he is _not_ in a good mood right now.

Lestrade approached John slowly, reaching forward to carefully take the small slip of paper from John's hands.  
>"Sherlock must have dropped it then, ay? For us to find?"<p>

John nodded to the DI, and then contradicted himself by shaking his head. "I wish he wasn't so bloody dramatic."

Lestrade chuckled and sighed, "I know, john." He placed a firm grip on the doctor's shoulder and smiled comfortingly. "But we'll find him."

John visibly swallowed and trudged alongside the Inspector, slugging his shoes through the green grass of Bryanstone Square.  
>"We have nothing else to go on, Lestrade. No evidence, no clues. Just the name Walter E. King, a man who uses-"<br>John stopped talking and blinking, processing all he knew about this criminal fraud, WEK.  
>His head flew upwards and a small smirk began to escalate across his features.<p>

"John?" Lestrade called out, gazing at the doctor, and halting in his steps towards forensics, where Anderson stood diligently working on footprint samples.

"Greg, that bloke. That bloke that got arrested for a crime Walter was known for committing. What was his name again?" John questioned, eyebrows arched intrigue as he waiting for the DI's response.

Lestrade squinted as he thought back and then immediately held up a finger. "Jeremy Spring."

John nodded vigorously and flew forward, "I need everything you got on him."  
>Lestrade shrugged an okay, confused by John's anxious ramblings.<p>

"He's our next stop." The blogger grinned widely and helped himself to Greg's car, climbing into the passenger seat.  
>The DI raised his chin in acknowledgement and jumped behind the wheel.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat uncomfortably; legs sprawled out in front of him, hands tied behind his back, as he waited for Walter's next misguided detail, something to tell him what it was he had planned. At one point, the man had left, for a few hours, leaving Mathews in charge of Sherlock's well-being, if you could call it that. Needless to say, the ridiculous "busboy" tossed him around a bit.<br>Few punches to the ribcage, across the head, eye.  
>When Walter King returned he didn't seem phased whatsoever by Sherlock's swollen, blood-covered face.<p>

He still wore his coat, but it was dirtied now, and creased in the back, much to his displeasure. His scarf was god knows where, he'd lost it along the way, and his black suit and white shirt appeared rather disheveled.

He watched as his captor returned to where he sat, a mere few inches from the laptops Sherlock desperately wished to get his hands on, and called out to one of his "busboys", in this case the largely built, dark-skinned man, poised in a ready position, his machine gun at his side in a formal manner of sorts.  
>"Jay, go get the others, won't you? It's time we start discussing tomorrow's schedule."<br>His employee bobbed his head in confirmation and stormed off into the shadows of the deep, dark warehouse.  
>Mr. Mathews was at Walter's side, occasionally glaring irritably at Sherlock Holmes, the captive he so desired to sucker punch again.<p>

_So he has more men. Obviously, you idiot. _

"I have questions." Sherlock's voice stirred both his captors, as they were preoccupied with other things, mostly sorting through plans, and typing on their laptops. Walter raised his head, with arched brows of suspicion.

Sherlock swallowed, adjusting his sitting position, his wrists sore from the metal chaffing. "Old questions. Questions that have long been unanswered."

Walter arched a brow and smirked widely, leaning back in his chair, and dragging his face away from his laptop screen.  
>"Alright, Mr. Holmes. Ask me these," He paused with a scoff, "questions."<br>His tone as he said the last word was enough to greatly silence any noise in the room, whether there was someone there or not.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, "For one: Oliver and I, were we right?"  
>Walter narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock took a deep exasperated breath, "About the woman and two children. Did you know them?"<p>

Walter's expression turned dark, darker than usual that is, and he grinned wickedly, "Oh yes."  
>He sat up straight and began to layout an explanation, "You see, I had quite the normal, ordinary as you would call it, life."<p>

Sherlock didn't flinch, just listened intently.

"Until I found out my wife had been joyfully playing around behind my back." Walter scoffed and shook his head, "Found out my two children weren't my two children. Some bastard out there was their father, _not_ me."

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, gesturing silently for the man to continue.

Walter smirked slyly, and went on, "I just got so mad, so angry and furious, so…" He laughed and shook his head with a shrug, "I killed her."

Sherlock groaned and nodded, "Obviously."

His captor scowled humorously, and let out a deep breath. "It was an accident at first, all of them were."

Sherlock glowered into a silent smirk of amusement, "_Accident_."

Walter King glared his way and cleared his throat, "Yeah," He bit back, "and then I noticed that I enjoyed it, so what do you know?"  
>He chuckled devilishly and shrugged his shoulders once more, "I decided to pursue it as an occupation."<p>

Sherlock frowned and quickly rolled his eyes.  
>After a rather eerie moment of utter silence, even from Mathews, Sherlock grunted inwardly and approached a more important subject.<p>

"But you let me live. Was I not good enough?" His words were words of mockery as he faked a pout, as if honestly disappointed.

Walter chuckled deeply and shook his head, "It is a card game, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock arched a brow.

"You were just the wild card. You were either a benefit or a mistake." Walter added with a smirk, and Sherlock eagerly stepped in, smiling a crooked smile.

"But now I'm forced into helping you. I'd say benefit on your part. Perhaps, you drew from a lucky deck."

Walter grinned and nodded intently, "I doubt it has anything to do with luck Sherlock, as I have to admit I originally thought you were one of my greatest mistakes."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in interest. "How so, Mr. King?"

Walter E. King laughed softly and glared up at the consulting detective, sitting patiently in the seat before him, "Well, the one person I decided to allow to live, became a bloody detective. The enemy in my field of work." He shrugged with amusement and went on, "And you weren't very cooperative in that diner, now were you? I was beginning to sincerely question myself." He chuckled wickedly and continued, "So I figured better to be rid of you if you were _no longer_ my _benefit_. Save myself the worry. Hence, pulling the trigger of the gun."

Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again, just as he had earlier, and scowled at his captor.

"How is that by the way?" Walter added with a smug expression.

Sherlock nodded, "Mm, fine. Bit sore." He shrugged, glaring genuinely at the utterly aggravating man.

"Right then. I'd apologize, but really I was aiming to kill you so…" He exhaled with an awfully kind tone of voice.

Sherlock stayed quiet, holding his intense and cold, blue eyes.

A few men strode up to the long, over-stretched table, where both Sherlock and his captor sat. One was the dark skinned man, another was tall and lanky, a long ginger beard hanging from his chin along with the same sort of hair, and another was rather dark looking with shoulder length black locks and a small black stubble. A female was also amongst the three men, her hair long and blonde, and her eyes glowing blue. Sherlock gazed at the crusade with raised eyebrows.

"Ah, good." Walter began, causing Mr. Mathews to get to his feet and hand every "employee" a stack of papers.  
>"Time to discuss our plans for tomorrow evening, my friends."<p>

Each of the surrounding members grinned wickedly and sat at the long table, hands grasping their sheets of paper in anxious excitement. Sherlock tensed and leaned forward, prepared for the full on explanation. Something in the back of his mind told him it wouldn't be good.

* * *

><p>Lestrade had acquired the needed information, and instantly left with John to visit Jeremy Spring in his small London flat.<br>It wasn't incredibly far from the crime scene, and before the doctor realized they were parking the patrol car and striding up to the doorway.

"What do we know about him?" John questioned in a hushed tone as if wary that someone would hear him.

"Well, nothing too important except for the fact that he is was put on witness protection a few hours ago."

John's eyes widened and his eyebrows flew upwards in disbelief. "Protection?"

They both swayed up to the front door, and Lestrade gently knocked, followed by, "NSY, nothing to be afraid of."  
>Jeremy Spring was at the door in a mere few seconds. He was rather small, with big ears, light brown hair, and a small goatee.<br>John narrowed his eyes, watching the man stand before them nervously, self-consciously trembling.  
>Lestrade glanced over at John and then back to Jeremy.<p>

"Mr. Spring? We just want to ask you a few questions."

Jeremy nodded and led the two inside, smiling wearily their way. "Yeah, come on in."  
>His voice was hoarse and rather unsettled as he guided them toward a small table in the corner of a living room, of sorts.<p>

"Nice place." John grunted, just trying to spark a friendly nerve so that Mr. Spring was willing to openly talk. Jeremy nodded his head, and shrugged awkwardly, sitting with both men at the table.

"Thanks," He swallowed and turned to Lestrade, "What's it you wanna' ask m'bout?"

Greg cleared his throat and gestured to John with a flinch of his head and John took it as his queue, "Yes, do you know one Sherlock Holmes?"  
>John folded his hands in front of him, elbows resting his weight on the table.<p>

The other man squinted his eyes and nodded again, "I seen 'im on the tele."  
>John sighed and held his breath for a mere moment.<p>

"Some detective bloke, yeah?"

John smiled irritably, "Yes. He's missing."

Jeremy shrugged and cowered slightly, "Unfortunate."

John was suddenly highly 'ticked off' and, instantly, Lestrade took over.  
>"Mm, you see mate, he was taken by one Walter Evans King."<p>

The man before them was suddenly shaking more violently, his eyes glistening over in worry, and his breathing picking up in pace.

John glanced at Lestrade and then picked up the discussion, "We realize you once worked with Mr. King."

Jeremy nodded, raising a hand to his disheveled brown hair, "Yeah, son of a bitch 'e was."

John bit his tongue and shut his eyes for a moment, nodding faintly, "Right, well, we were wondering if there was anything you know that could possibly help us to find our friend."

Jeremy looked up, realization dawning on him, that this wasn't just some random bloke in a case.  
>"I see." He swallowed and sighed exhaustedly.<p>

John stepped in quickly, "We understand that you were recently put under witness protection?"

Jeremy bobbed his head up and down, "Of a sort."

John narrowed his eyes, "What do you mean?"

Jeremy cleared his throat and leaned inward to the two, talking in a faint whisper, "Well, I be in the market, just getting mi shopping when I feel this strange presence, ya know?"

John shook his head, feeling slightly awkward, as he didn't…actually…know.

"So then, I turn 'round, and 'e's standing 'ere, all high 'n mighty. Says ta me, Mr. Spring, I gots a 'lil job for ya."

John's eyes widened and he peered over at Lestrade for a moment before turning back.

"I says, I don't want none of his jobs. Last one, put me in a bloody cell."

John nods, and Spring continues, "And 'e says to me, at least lemme explain."

Jeremy turns red, and glances down at his hand, his finger winding around his wrists, "I let 'im explain after that."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and Spring protests, "Oi, I don't 'ave much of a pay workin' at a bloody gas station."

John rolls his eyes and ushers the man on, feeling as though he was wasting precious time when he could be looking for Sherlock.

"So, I says to 'im, Okay." Spring states, "'e says there's this shipment comin' in. Over a million in pounds, 'e says, from over the seas. I tell ya, I was tempted." The man shrugged and cleared his throat, "But I says, sorry Walter, I ain't havin' nutin to do with your smugglin' business. And you know what 'e says back? Then I ain't want nutin to do with you."

John narrowed his eyebrows in a frown, same as Lestrade.

Jeremy nods enthusiastically, "'t's a death threat, mates. I know Walter King."

John swallows and licks his lips in annoyance. "Right. Thank you for your time, Mr. Spring."

Lestrade glances over at John in confusion. John storms from the small flat, lunging into the door and out into the cool London breeze. He soon hears Lestrade following, and throws a hand over his face in exhaustion as the door closes behind him. Greg is standing right beside him, both staring blankly up at the darkened sky.

It had been a day and half. And nothing from Sherlock. Not a word. Not a sighting.  
>Only little notes so dramatic they barely aided anyone.<p>

John sighed in exasperation and shook his head, causing Lestrade to turn his way. "John, this will all be okay."

John looked over at the DI with a scoff of saddened amusement, "He's gone and got himself in quite the predicament, Greg."

The inspector nodded and placed a hand on John's shoulder, "Yeah, but he's Sherlock Holmes. He probably has an escape plan and everything."

John laughed with a small nod, "How I Did It, by Sherlock Holmes." John chuckled, thinking back to the small book and skeleton Anderson had left to draw Sherlock to London. Sherlock had told John all about it not too long ago, bickering constantly about the increasing amount of Anderson's stupidity.

Lestrade bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically, realizing what John was quoting.

John's expression suddenly fell blank and he cleared his throat softly, "Greg, look into that job Walter might be planning, will you?"  
>John began to stride away, towards the curb, eager to hail a taxi.<p>

"Where are you going? Need a ride?"

John smiled at the DI's offer, "I'm good, thanks. Just need some think time."

Lestrade was soon grinning and John peered over his shoulder, stopping in his tracks.

"What?" He asked when Lestrade swayed toward his car, chuckling faintly.

"You're just like him, John." Lestrade shrugged and slipped into his car.

John looked down at the ground, a smile fresh on his face. _Maybe._


End file.
